UNIVIW1TY  OF  1LUNOIS  LIBRARY 
AT  URBANA-CHAMPAlgN 


ILLINOIS  HISTORICAL  SURVEY 


MEMORIES  OF  A   FRIEND 


MEMORIES  OF 
A  FRIEND 


BY 


AMELIA  GERE  MASON 


CHICAGO 
LAURENCE  C.  WOODWORTH 

1918 


COPYRIGHT  1918 

BY 
AMELIA  GERE  MASON 


.  7209773 


CONTENTS 

Preface              ......  vii 

Introduction           .....  ix 

Memories  of  a  Friend             ....  3 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

PORTRAITS 

Emily  Eames  MacVeagh  .  .          Frontispiece 

Emily  Eames,  at  the  age  of  four       .         Facing  page     9 

Emily  Eames  MacVeagh        .            .  25 

from  a  photograph^  1909 

Edith  MacVeagh,  at  the  age  of  five       .  49 

Eames  MacVeagh,  at  the  age  of  twelve  65 

Amelia  Gere  Mason           .                       .  89 

Franklin  MacVeagh                                                    "  113 

[v] 


00 


ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 

Eames  MacVeagh        .  .  .       Facing  page   129 

Emily  Eames  MacVeagh  .  .  "     165 

from  a  photograph,  1 91 1 
RESIDENCES 

The  Chicago  Residence          .  .  '      Facing  page   73 

The  Washington  Residence          .  "     145 

Knollwood,  Dublin,  New  Hampshire     .  161 


Note — The  illustration  of  the  Washington  residence  (facing  page 
145)  was  drawn  by  Hugh  Ferriss  for  The  Christian  Science  Monitor, 
from  a  photograph  copyrighted  by  Underwood  &  Underwood.  It  is 
here  reproduced  with  the  courteous  permission  of  all  concerned. 


[vi] 


PREFACE 

These  "Memories"  were  begun  many  years  ago  as  a 
personal  record  of  a  life -long  friendship.  There  was 
never  a  thought  of  publication,  which  indeed  the  intimacy 
of  the  simple  details  seemed  to  forbid.  Additions  were 
made  from  time  to  time,  and  what  was  begun  as  a 
sketch  of  early  days  now  presents  in  outline  many  of 
the  salient  points  of  a  life.  The  manuscript  was  always 
left  among  other  special  papers,  subject  to  any  changes 
the  years  might  bring,  and  addressed  to  Emily  Eames 
MacVeagh. 

Eutfate  has  a  capricious  way  of  reversing  the  natural 
order  of  things.  Today  she  is  gone,  and  it  has  passed 
into  the  hands  of  those  most  concerned,  who  have  thought 
it  desirable  to  put  the  rambling  pages  into  a  permanent 
form ;  while  I  am  still  here  to  add  a  last  line  to  the  best 
tribute  I  can  offer  to  a  cherished  friend.  It  is  a  faithful, 
spontaneous,  and  entirely  unsought  transcript  of  things 
as  they  passed.  The  facts,  noted  down  at  the  moment  in 
my  diary,  and  a  few  letters  tell  their  own  story.  If  these 
serve  in  any  measure  to  recall  the  gracious  and  attaching 
personality  of  one  who  lived  a  full  life  and  went  out  of 
it  bravely,  the  simple  record,  without  plan  as  it  is,  will 
have  fulfilled  its  purpose. 

A.  G.  M. 

Chicago,  1918 


Vll 


INTRODUCTION 

A  great  deal  of  the  pleasure  of  living  lies 
in  having  lived.  It  is  the  memories  of  those 
who  came  to  us  when  the  world  was  fresh 
and  new,  that  people  our  solitude  and  give 
us  a  sense  of  the  continuity  of  life.  A  few 
figures  stand  out  in  the  past  as  linked  some- 
how with  its  intimate  joys  and  sorrows,  and 
these  become  doubly  alive  as  the  years  go 
on.  We  like  to  call  them  from  the  shadows 
and  live  over  again  the  scenes  that  come 
with  them.  We  project  little  pictures  of 
them  in  our  imagination.  Perhaps  we  while 
away  the  silent  or  lonely  hours  by  putting 
these  memories  into  visible  form.  This  is 
what  I  am  doing  now.  The  picture  may  be 
dim  and  imperfect,  but  it  is  a  true  record  of 
one  I  knew  and  loved  in  childhood.  We 
have  often  gone  separate  ways,  but  the 
early  affection  outlasted  time  and  change. 


[ix 


MEMORIES  OF  A  FRIEND 


MEMORIES  OF  A  FRIEND 

I 

WHEN  I  first  saw  Emily  Eames  she  was  a  child 
of  eight  years.  I  was  older,  but  still  at  an  age 
when  impressions  are  vivid  and  lasting.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  a  life-long  friendship  and  I  have  always 
retained  a  clear  picture  of  her  as  she  was  at  that 
time.  She  had  a  singularly  winning  personality.  No 
one  who  knew  her  then  could  forget  her  fascinating 
ways,  her  enthusiasm,  her  energy,  her  facility,  and 
her  boundless  affection.  Her  face  was  mobile  and 
expressive,  her  hair  of  a  bright  auburn,  and  her  blue 
eyes  fairly  danced  with  love  and  joy.  She  was  ap- 
parently quite  unconscious  of  herself  and  seemed  to 
care  little  then  for  dress  or  personal  adornment.  Per- 
haps she  was  still  too  young  to  think  of  these  things, 
which  grow  so  naturally  out  of  a  taste  for  the  beau- 
tiful and  a  wish  to  please.  Her  love  for  her  friends 
was  uppermost  and  for  these  she  had  a  veritable 
adoration  which  showed  itself  in  everything  she  did. 
I  recall  one  instance  of  her  devotion,  when  she  in- 
sisted upon  leaving  the  family  pew  at  church  to  sit 
where  she  could  have  a  full  and  constant  view  of  her 

[3] 


idol  of  the  moment,  who  in  this  case  was  destined  to 
play  a  more  or  less  permanent  part  in  her  life. 

During  these  early  years  I  never  saw  in  her  a 
trace  of  the  selfishness  or  ill  temper  that  so  often 
mars  the  attractions  of  a  much  petted  child.  She 
was  wilful  and  determined  when  she  set  her  heart 
on  anything,  but  she  usually  won  her  way  by  per- 
suasion and  a  thousand  little  graces  of  fascination, 
rather  than  by  direct  insistence.  If  other  devices 
failed,  however,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  insist,  or 
resort  to  various  diplomacies  to  gain  her  end. 

The  same  intensity  of  affection  that  made  her 
love  for  her  friends  a  species  of  worship,  also  made 
her  passionately  resentful  of  any  wrong  done  them. 
She  did  not  readily  forget  an  injustice  to  those  she 
loved,  though  she  was  never  revengeful.  I  have 
often  heard  her  say  that  she  could  not  cherish  a 
resentment  long  enough  to  be  dignified. 

She  was  born  in  Utica,  New  York,  but  in  her  in- 
fancy her  family  removed  to  Ottawa,  Illinois,  where 
her  childhood  and  early  youth  were  passed.  It  was 
a  flourishing  town,  with  an  exceptionally  interesting 
social  life.  Many  of  its  leading  citizens  came  to 
have  a  national  reputation.  Among  these  were  Judge 
T.  Lyle  Dickey,  an  eminent  lawyer  and  wit  who  be- 
came Assistant  Attorney  General  during  Grant's 
administration,  and  later,  Chief  Justice  of  the  Su- 
preme Court  of  Illinois;  Burton  Cook,  a  Congress- 
man and  a  man  of  fine  intellectual  tastes;  General 

[4] 


W.  H.  L.  Wallace,  an  eminent  lawyer,  who  distin- 
guished himself  before  losing  his  life  in  the  Civil  War; 
and  Judge  Caton,  who  held  many  important  posi- 
tions both  civil  and  judicial,  accumulated  a  large 
fortune,  and  died  at  an  advanced  age  in  Chicago, 
where  he  lived  for  many  years.  Mrs.  Caton,  who 
was  Emily's  aunt,  was  a  stately,  gracious  lady,  noted 
for  her  hospitality  and  the  elegance  of  her  entertain- 
ments, as  well  as  for  her  large  and  generous  char- 
acter. There  were  many  others  who  have  left  hon- 
ored names  among  those  who  shaped  the  destinies 
of  the  State  before  money  sat  upon  the  throne  and 
furnished  motives  and  standards  in  every  department 
of  life. 

Among  the  various  social  elements  in  Ottawa 
there  was  a  small  colony  of  English  people  of  the 
better  class,  who  left  the  conventional  life  which 
they  had  not  the  means  to  support  at  home,  and 
buried  themselves  for  long  periods  in  the  compara- 
tive seclusion  of  a  new  country.  From  time  to  time 
they  returned  to  England  for  more  or  less  extended 
visits,  and  brought  back  the  fresh  flavor  of  a  mode 
of  living  which  was  less  common  here  then  than  it  is 
today.  There  was  something  in  this  exotic  atmos- 
phere of  established  forms,  social  amenities,  and 
agreeable  manners,  that  appealed  strongly  to  the 
little  Emily.  She  was  by  nature  aesthetic.  She 
loved  the  beautiful  in  all  its  phases,  not  only  of  form 
and  color,  but  the  subtler  essence  of  it  as  shown  in 

[5] 


graces  of  speech  and  manner,  in  harmony  of  living, 
in  the  thousand  fine  details  of  even  a  simple  life, 
saturated  with  old-world  traditions.  The  very  tra- 
ditions charmed  her.  She  was  a  pet  and  a  favorite 
in  these  pleasant  homes,  and  was  never  weary  of 
listening  to  tales  of  an  order  of  things  which  sug- 
gested a  sort  of  fairy-land  to  her  childish  imagina- 
tion. Inspired  by  these  romantic  tales  and  dazzled 
by  the  mysterious  splendor  of  their  setting,  this  girl 
of  seven  or  eight  years  ransacked  trunks  of  old  finery 
and  delighted  to  array  herself  in  the  silks,  brocades, 
laces,  and  jewels  of  bygone  days,  and  play  impro- 
vised dramas  in  which  knights  and  court  ladies  had 
a  conspicuous  place,  with  hoary  castles,  and  stately 
halls,  and  beautiful  parks,  as  imaginary  backgrounds. 
This  love  of  the  ceremonies  and  accessories  of  an  old 
civilization  never  left  her,  and  it  colored  all  the  tastes 
and  aspirations  of  her  mature  years.  She  was  never 
content  with  material  luxury,  which  she  always  had, 
according  to  the  measure  of  the  time,  but  it  was  her 
life-long  aim  to  crown  the  force,  the  energy,  and  the 
often  crude  ambitions  of  modern  life,  with  the  grace 
and  charm  of  a  calmer  and  more  settled  existence. 
As  she  grew  older,  her  interests  enlarged  rapidly. 
She  learned  readily  and  was  eager  to  excel  in  every 
thing  she  did.  She  began  early  to  show  a  keen  appre- 
ciation of  books  and  of  people  who  represented  cul- 
ture in  any  form.  Her  aptness  for  seizing  upon  what- 
ever was  uppermost  in  the  aesthetic  current  of  the 

[6] 


time  was  remarkable,  even  in  her  youth.  I  recall 
meeting  her  at  a  dance  one  evening  while  visiting  my 
Ottawa  friends  after  a  long  absence.  She  had  grown 
into  a  graceful  girl  of  fifteen,  full  of  the  old  life  and 
enthusiasm,  loving  the  gay  amusements  of  her  age, 
but  looking  at  the  world  also  from  another  and  more 
serious  side.  Music  was  not  her  dominant  passion, 
though  it  appealed  strongly  to  her  emotional  tem- 
perament, so  I  was  the  more  surprised  when  she 
turned  to  me  at  some  pause  in  the  quadrille,  and 
asked  a  discriminating  question  about  Madame  La- 
grange,  who  was  then  at  the  height  of  her  fame,  and 
singing  in  New  York.  It  was  not  so  much  the  com- 
ment she  made  that  struck  me,  but  the  fact  that  a 
schoolgirl  should  think  of  commenting  at  all,  at  such 
a  moment,  on  the  genius  and  career  of  a  woman  a 
thousand  miles  away  whom  she  had  never  seen,  and 
whose  life  was  apparently  so  far  removed  from  her 
own  interests.  It  was  no  doubt  partly  due  to  her  tact 
in  divining  what  would  be  likely  to  please  one  much 
devoted  to  music,  but  behind  it  was  the  intelligence 
that  even  then  caught  the  salient  points  in  the  best 
culture  of  the  time.  Though  so  far  from  the  centres 
of  civilization  at  a  period  when  they  seemed  much 
more  remote  than  they  do  now,  she  kept  herself  au 
courant  with  what  was  going  on  there. 

A  little  later  she  came  directly  under  the  influ- 
ence of  Mrs.  Henshaw,  the  wife  of  a  retired  naval 
officer,  a  woman  of  strong  intellect,  large  character, 


and  great  personal  distinction,  with  all  the  charm  of 
social  culture  and  the  refinement  of  a  New  England 
gentlewoman.  Her  exalted  ideals  and  fine  enthusi- 
asms were  an  inspiration  to  the  impressionable  young 
girl  and  held  her  attention  to  more  or  less  serious 
things.  She  directed  her  reading  into  the  best  chan- 
nels and  gave  her  a  taste  for  the  solid  forms  of  litera- 
ture. Taking  into  account  the  material  with  which 
she  had  to  deal,  she  marked  out  a  course  of  training 
that  led  to  definite  ends,  and  left  a  strong  impress  on 
the  facile  character  which  had  for  her,  as  for  others, 
so  attaching  a  quality. 

It  was  Mrs.  Henshaw  who  suggested  for  her  Miss 
Dutton's  school  at  New  Haven,  which  at  that  time 
offered  unusual  facilities  in  many  directions  for  a 
young  girl's  education.  She  had  lived  in  New  Haven 
herself,  was  partly  educated  there,  and  had  a  per- 
sonal knowledge  of  these  advantages,  as  well  as  of 
the  atmosphere  into  which  her  little  friend  would  be 
thrown.  It  was  before  the  days  of  colleges  and  uni- 
versity degrees  for  women,  but  there  were  ample  op- 
portunities there  for  gathering  the  knowledge  of  his- 
tory, art,  and  literature,  which  held  the  first  place  in 
Emily's  interest.  Art  was  then  largely  studied  in 
books,  and  I  have  often  heard  her  speak  of  the  delight 
she  had  in  a  teacher  who  was  not  only  an  ardent 
disciple,  but  a  friend  of  Ruskin's,  and  read  to  her 
pupils  his  occasional  letters.  Such  facilities  for  seeing 
pictures  as  came  to  her  through  an  acquaintance  with 

[8] 


a  few  distinguished  artists,  and  frequent  visits  to 
New  York,  were  eagerly  embraced.  But  the  glimpses 
she  had  of  an  intellectual  social  life  were  not  among 
the  least  of  the  influences  which  told  on  her  future. 
The  atmosphere  that  surrounded  the  Woolseys,  the 
Sillimans,  and  other  leaders  in  the  best  life  of  New 
Haven,  was  in  itself  an  inspiration.  She  met,  too, 
many  of  the  college  men  who  have  since  played  a 
conspicuous  part  in  the  world  of  affairs. 

Among  these  were  William  C.  Whitney,  later  sec- 
retary of  the  navy,  political  leader,  and  noted  finan- 
cier; Professor  William  G.  Sumner,  well-known  as 
professor  of  political  economy  at  Yale,  an  Independ- 
ent in  politics,  and  a  strong  advocate  of  free  trade; 
Daniel  H.  Chamberlain,  who  won  reputation  as  a 
reconstructionist  after  the  war,  and  became  a  popu- 
lar governor  of  South  Carolina;  United  States  Senator 
Higgins  of  Delaware;  Eugene  Schuyler,  traveler,  lit- 
terateur^ and  diplomat,  who  had  a  brilliant  career  as 
minister  to  Greece,  charge  d'affaires  at  St.  Petersburg, 
and  translator  of  some  of  the  masterpieces  of  Russian 
fiction — finishing  his  half-completed  life  on  foreign 
soil  with  its  best  possibilities  yet  before  him;  and 
Joseph  Cook,  clergyman  and  distinguished  orator, 
who  went  out  of  life,  too,  before  he  had  passed  his 
prime.  But  most  important  to  her  of  all  this  bril- 
liant coterie  was  Franklin  MacVeagh,  to  whom  she 
was  afterward  married  and  whose  friends  were  her 
friends. 

[9] 


On  leaving  New  Haven  after  three  years  of  study, 
she  spent  two  years  in  New  York  at  a  French  school, 
where  she  devoted  herself  to  the  languages,  music, 
art,  and  belles-lettres.  Here  she  received  the  finishing 
touches  to  her  schooling.  This  is  speaking  after  the 
manner  of  the  world,  for  in  reality  she  never  did  con- 
sider her  education  finished,  as  she  was  more  or  less  a 
student,  in  some  direction,  all  her  life,  notably  on 
aesthetic  lines.  She  was  specially  favored  in  the  ac- 
quaintance of  well-known  artists,  who  made  her  fam- 
iliar with  all  that  was  best  worth  seeing  at  that  time; 
also  in  her  social  advantages.  Many  life-long  friend- 
ships were  formed.  Then,  as  always,  the  social  side 
of  things  was  uppermost.  She  loved  people,  and  she 
had  a  happy  facility  in  gathering  from  them  what 
best  fitted  into  her  own  scheme  of  life. 

The  close  of  her  school  days  left  her  with  many 
new  ideals  of  living  and  new  standards.  These  she 
brought  back  to  her  Western  home.  In  the  absence 
of  other  active  interests  on  which  to  spend  her  rest- 
less energies,  she  plunged  into  books  as  a  refuge  for 
her  idle  hours.  She  chose  history,  biography,  and 
books  of  travel,  in  preference  to  the  almost  universal 
fiction,  partly  perhaps  to  add  to  her  available  knowl- 
edge, and  partly  through  a  quality  of  mind  that 
found  more  pleasure  in  solid  than  in  purely  imagina- 
tive literature.  With  a  practical  vein  inherited  from 
her  father,  she  instinctively  sought  what  she  could 
make  use  of,  or  what  would  add  strength  and  value 

[10] 


to  her  personality.  Her  generous  enthusiasm  and  her 
love  of  social  life  came  from  her  mother,  whose  gra- 
cious and  abundant  hospitality  made  her  a  command- 
ing figure  in  her  early  days. 


II 

IT  WAS  about  the  time  of  Emily's  return  from  New 
York  that  her  family  removed  to  Chicago,  which 
became  her  permanent  home.  This  was  in  the  spring 
of  1865.  It  was  just  at  the  close  of  the  Civil  War, 
when  stirring  events  followed  each  other  in  quick 
succession.  The  echo  of  rejoicing  had  hardly  died 
away  when  the  country  was  stunned  by  the  assassina- 
tion of  its  much-loved  President.  All  business  was 
suspended.  The  city  was  draped  in  black.  People 
wandered  about,  tearful  and  silent,  wondering  what 
was  coming  next.  The  scenes  of  the  following  days 
are  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  remains  lay  in  state 
here  for  several  hours  en  route  to  their  last  resting 
place,  and  I  have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  being 
called  at  midnight  to  go  and  see  them.  The  hall 
hung  in  black,  the  profusion  of  white  flowers,  the 
solemn  dirges,  the  weeping  crowd — all  served  to 
deepen  the  tragic  impression  that  was  indelible. 

But  the  world  goes  on  whoever  may  drop  out  of 
it.  Mourning  and  festivities  are  never  far  apart.  On 
the  morrow  of  the  great  tragedy  of  the  century, 
people  were  thronging  to  the  new  Crosby  Opera  House, 
the  opening  of  which  had  been  deferred  until  after 
the  funeral.  The  sombre  pall  still  hung  over  the  city 

[12] 


and  every  heart  was  still  heavy  with  grief,  but  visibly 
it  was  a  gala  night.  The  house  was  fresh  and  beauti- 
ful in  its  white  and  gold  with  relief  of  blue,  the  audi- 
ence was  a  brilliant  one,  and  the  opera  was  //  Trova- 
tore.  Clara  Louise  Kellogg,  the  leading  soprano,  was 
at  the  height  of  her  fame  and  never  sang  better.  She 
was  a  trifle  cold  perhaps,  but  graceful  and  full  of 
charm,  with  a  voice  of  great  clearness  and  purity. 
For  the  next  two  or  three  weeks  everybody  was  dis- 
cussing the  merits  of  the  singers.  Annie  Louise  Gary 
won  all  hearts  with  her  sympathetic  contralto  notes 
and  her  magnetic  personality.  Then  there  was  the 
silver- voiced  Brignoli;  Zucchi,  commanding  in  trag- 
edy, intense  and  powerful;  Mazzolini,  and  numerous 
others — stars  in  their  time,  but  all  gone  into  obscur- 
ity or  out  of  the  world  today. 

Shortly  after  the  close  of  the  most  brilliant  opera 
season  ever  known  to  Chicago  at  that  time,  came  the 
great  Sanitary  Fair  to  broaden  its  interests  in  many 
directions.  Not  least  in  importance  among  its  ex- 
hibits was  a  fine  collection  of  American  pictures, 
including  the  best  works  of  Church,  Bierstadt,  Leutze, 
Beard,  Hart,  Inness,  Weber,  and  others  less  known. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  era  in  the  history  of 
the  city.  The  interest  in  things  literary  and  artistic 
was  extending  to  groups  of  men  and  women  who  were 
trying  to  establish  a  more  solid  foundation  for  the 
growth  of  finer  tastes.  Everything  was  crude  yet, 
but  hope  abounded,  and  energy,  and  aspiration. 

[131 


It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  stirring  of  new  aims 
and  impulses  that  had  not  yet  found  permanent  form 
or  expression,  that  Emily  came  to  Chicago  and  we 
took  up  again  the  threads  of  an  old  affection  which 
quickly  ripened  into  a  lasting  intimacy.  I  had  to 
some  extent  lost  trace  of  her  interests  and  tastes  for 
several  years  and  was  pleased  to  find  that  time  had 
only  added  to  her  enthusiasm  for  everything  that  led 
in  the  direction  of  a  broader  culture.  I  have  a  vivid 
remembrance  of  meeting  her  one  afternoon  soon  after 
she  came,  and  drifting  into  a  long  discussion  of  the 
various  writers  and  artists  of  the  time.  Her  famili- 
arity with  them  was  unusual  among  the  young  ladies 
of  that  day,  and  I  was  especially  struck  with  the 
soundness  of  her  judgment  and  the  seriousness  of  her 
tastes.  Without  being  profoundly  critical,  she  was 
appreciative,  and  quite  in  touch  with  the  literary  and 
artistic  spirit  of  the  moment.  Then,  as  always,  she 
was  keenly  interested  in  the  visible  forms  of  beauty. 
She  was  fresh,  too,  from  the  personal  influence  of  the 
group  of  artists  who,  under  the  leadership  of  Clar- 
ence Cooke,  Eugene  Schuyler,  and  Russell  Sturgis, 
were  discussing  modern  art  and  its  aim  in  the  pages 
of  The  New  Path.  This  we  hailed  as  a  prelude  to  the 
coming  day,  entering  into  all  the  Pre-Raphaelite  en- 
thusiasms of  its  young  contributors,  who  were  the 
early  disciples  of  Rossetti,  Millais,  and  Holman  Hunt. 
There  was  little  taste  for  art  in  this  country  at  that 
time,  especially  in  the  West,  where  every  one  was 


absorbed  in  the  race  for  money  and  the  utilitarian 
side  of  life  was  uppermost.  But  we  had  dim  visions 
of  unknown  regions  where  people  knelt  at  the  shrine 
of  beauty,  and  we  reveled  in  dreams  of  what  our 
own  civilization  was  one  day  to  become,  with  its 
unlimited  resources  and  its  expanding  ideals. 

Our  rambling  talks  led  to  an  indefatigable  search 
for  everything  that  could  throw  a  ray  of  light  on 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world  of  art  and  intellect. 
Together  we  haunted  the  picture  exhibitions,  what- 
ever their  size  or  importance  might  be.  We  stood 
spellbound  before  the  brilliant  work  of  Church  and 
Bierstadt,  the  sombre  imagination  of  Inness,  the 
delicacy  and  refinement  of  Kensett,  the  freshness  of 
Bradford,  the  thoughtful  seriousness  of  Vedder  and  La- 
farge.  Perhaps  we  were  not  very  discriminating.  We 
devoured  every  number  of  The  New  Path^  accepted 
its  judgments,  and  fancied  we  endorsed  its  theories. 
I  strongly  suspect  that  a  certain  glamour  which  hung 
about  the  English  Pre-Raphaelites,  and  the  brilliant 
gifts  and  youthful  earnestness  of  their  American 
followers,  had  much  to  do  with  our  rather  undefined 
faith.  We  talked  of  realism,  but  really  loved  ideal- 
ism. The  stage  of  objective  criticism  we  had  not 
reached,  and  we  had  no  illustrations  of  the  new 
theories  on  which  to  base  our  impressions.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  the  hard  literalism  and  absolute  fidelity 
to  detail  of  this  short-lived  school  would  not  have 
appealed  to  us,  though  we  have  since  recognized  the 

[15] 


immense  value  of  its  influence  on  later  art.  But 
what  we  lacked  in  knowledge  we  made  up  in  enthu- 
siasm. We  felt  the  sincerity  of  much  that  we  saw, 
and  knew  that  it  was  beautiful. 

If  we  had  not  an  art-atmosphere  or  too  many 
pictures,  and  were  utterly  without  familiar  traditions 
which  count  for  so  much,  we  had  at  least  books  that 
gave  us  glimpses  into  unknown  worlds  of  beauty.  We 
raved  over  Ruskin,  saw  the  wonderful  work  of  Turner 
through  his  eyes — or  fancied  we  did — and  found  a 
royal  banquet  in  the  glowing  pages  of  The  Modern 
Painters.  We  read  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture , 
studied  our  own  crude  buildings  by  the  rather  ab- 
stract light  of  it,  and  found  them  wanting.  I  even 
tried  to  write  an  article  on  the  beauties  of  the  new 
Opera  House,  which  represented  the  finest  architec- 
tural taste  of  the  city  at  that  moment,  and  a  friend 
sent  me  this  book  as  an  inspiration.  I  did  not  find 
it  illuminating  on  that  special  subject,  though  it  was 
inspiring  in  a  larger  way.  No  doubt  the  paper  was 
sufficiently  vague  as  to  architecture,  but  it  appeared 
in  a  Boston  musical  journal  which  was  an  authority 
at  the  time.  Of  history  there  was  no  end.  We 
searched  the  pages  of  Kugler,  and  Liibke,  and  Vasari, 
for  light  on  the  artistic  past,  talked  wisely  of  schools, 
and  interested  ourselves  in  every  detail  of  the  lives 
of  the  masters  from  the  dawn  of  art  to  the  latest 
romantic  experiences  of  Millais  and  Rossetti. 

Many  of  our  idols  are  rudely  tossed  aside  by  the 

[16] 


student  of  today.  New  gods  have  been  put  on  ped- 
estals, to  be  put  off  again  in  turn.  I  recall  standing 
one  day  before  Harriet  Hosmer's  Zenobia,  noting  the 
proud  face,  the  nerved  hand,  the  reluctant  step,  and 
imagining  the  real  woman  with  her  power  and  her 
tragedy  behind  the  drapery  of  marble.  We  are  told 
now  that  the  real  woman  was  never  there.  Perhaps 
we  had  a  dim  consciousness  at  the  moment  that  she 
was  not  so  much  alive  as  we  tried  to  believe  her,  for 
I  find  in  my  note  book  a  record  of  disappointment 
which  was  traced  to  the  impossibility  of  putting  the 
depth  and  intensity  of  life  into  colorless  stone.  Did 
we  read  into  it  the  dreams  of  our  own  imaginations? 
If  we  did  they  were  rosy  dreams  with  inspiration  in 
them.  I  wonder  if  the  old  worship  of  ideals  any 
longer  exists!  Does  the  sun  ever  really  shine  for 
those  who  devote  themselves  to  finding  its  spots? 

So  far  as  Emily  was  concerned,  all  this  was  a  prel- 
ude to  the  passion  for  artistic  decoration  and  for 
surrounding  herself  with  rare  and  beautiful  things, 
which  so  strongly  colored  her  life  in  after  years,  and 
led  her  always  to  take  an  active  interest  in  those  who 
were  struggling  towards  a  realization  of  beauty  in  a 
depressing  air.  No  genuine  talent  ever  appealed  to 
her  in  vain.  But  she  wished  for  results,  and  was 
never  satisfied  until  she  saw  the  fruit  of  any  gift, 
however  small.  She  had,  to  an  eminent  degree,  the 
art  of  adapting  means  to  special  ends,  and  was  not 
content  with  purely  spiritual  or  intellectual  values. 


She  must  see  them  reduced  to  the  concrete  and  vis- 
ible. If  her  extreme  optimism  often  led  her  to  over- 
rate these  results,  her  sympathy  and  encouragement 
were  none  the  less  inspiring.  At  twenty-two  one  has 
enthusiasms.  Emily  never  lost  them. 

I  often  heard  her  say  that  she  would  like  to  take 
up  some  historic  or  artistic  subject  and  give  private 
talks  to  selected  classes,  if  her  life  were  not  already 
planned  on  other  lines.  A  kindly  fate  had  placed  her 
beyond  the  need  of  doing  anything  for  the  money  it 
might  bring,  but  she  looked  upon  this  as  a  possible 
outlet  for  her  superabundant  energies  and  a  pleasant 
way  of  utilizing  whatever  knowledge  she  had.  It  was 
before  the  days  when  women  began  to  flock  to  the 
lecture  platform,  and  few  were  attracted  to  a  mission 
of  that  sort,  even  if  it  were  no  more  than  a  quiet 
parlor  talk.  Culture  had  not  become  a  fad  and  in- 
struction a  mania.  But  Delia  Bacon  had  been  much 
considered  in  New  Haven  for  her  Shakespearean 
classes  until  her  Baconian  theories  attacked  a  popu- 
lar idol  and  arrayed  her  friends  against  each  other. 
It  was  her  career,  brilliant,  though  tragic  at  its  close, 
that  set  a  fashion  which  appealed  strongly  to  Emily's 
imagination.  She  thought  it  opened  an  agreeable 
field  for  women  and  constantly  urged  me  to  enter  it. 
I  have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  seeing  her  walk  into 
my  room  one  summer  evening  with  her  arms  full  of 
books,  and  a  servant  following  with  another  huge 
pile.  I  was  just  starting  for  a  season  in  the  country 

[1*1 


and  these  were  intended  for  my  recreation.  Among 
the  volumes  which  I  was  expected  to  take  in  my 
trunk  for  holiday  reading  or  re-reading,  were  Gibbon, 
Macaulay,  Hallam,  Arnold,  Buckle,  and  some  large 
history  of  art,  Kugler  I  think,  with  a  few  of  Vasari's 
Lives  of  the  Artists.  Libraries  were  not  numerous 
then,  and  books  were  expensive,  so  this  was  a  wel- 
come offering,  but  it  was  rather  solid  fare  to  be  pro- 
posed by  a  young  lady  to  a  semi-invalid  friend  seek- 
ing rest  and  health  among  the  trees.  No  doubt  she 
was  consulting  my  tastes,  but  this  formidable  array 
of  books  appealed  to  her  as  a  vast  storehouse  of 
knowledge  from  which  I  was  to  gather  material  for 
a  series  of  drawing-room  talks.  I  suggested  that  I 
should  come  back  a  veritable  blue-stocking,  as  well 
as  a  wreck,  and  asked  if  I  might  not  have  a  volume 
of  Tennyson  and  a  novel  or  two,  just  to  relieve  the 
tension  of  so  much  learning  when  I  was  ordered  to 
be  frivolous  and  vegetate.  But  she  was  not  sure  that 
it  was  best  to  waste  time  on  poetry  or  novels,  which 
would  contribute  nothing  to  the  end  in  view  and 
really  led  nowhere.  On  this  point  we  were  hopelessly, 
though  amiably,  at  variance,  in  spite  of  my  own  New 
England  birth  and  training  which  did  not  foster  the 
imagination.  I  was  glad,  however,  to  take  the  books, 
though,  alas,  they  came  back  from  that  special  out- 
ing mostly  unread.  Fate,  in  the  guise  of  a  severe 
illness,  was  too  much  for  me. 

This  little  incident  is  a  good  illustration  of  her 

[19] 


devotion  to  the  interest  of  her  friends.  She  was  al- 
ways ready  to  use  her  energies  in  their  behalf,  and 
continually  spurring  them  on  to  make  the  most  of 
any  gifts  they  might  have.  She  valued,  too,  work  of 
a  solid  quality.  I  was  speaking  to  her  one  day  of  a 
woman  of  much  culture  who  posed  a  little,  but  was 
genuine  in  comparison  with  many  who  do  the  same 
thing  today. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Emily,  "I  know  her;  but  don't  you 
think  she  handles  serious  subjects  with  kid  gloves? 
Isn't  she  a  sort  of  dilettante  who  just  skims  the  sur- 
face of  things?" 

"Perhaps  none  of  us  do  much  more  than  that,"  I 
replied,  "but  she  is  at  least  a  thinking  woman  who 
does  not  take  all  of  her  opinions  at  second  hand.  A 
social  leader  who  aims  at  something  akin  to  a  liter- 
ary salon,  with  scant  material  at  her  command,  can- 
not treat  things  too  profoundly  or  she  will  be  left  in 
chilly  solitude.  You  will  find  that  learning  in  social 
life  is  apt  to  become  very  much  diluted,  especially 
where  it  is  not  the  rule,  but  the  exception." 

She  was  fresh  from  an  academic  atmosphere  with 
academic  traditions,  and  had  vague  dreams  of  a  lit- 
erary salon  herself,  so  this  subject  often  came  up 
between  us. 

At  this  time  of  her  life  I  was  often  struck  with 
the  equity  of  her  judgments  of  people.  It  was  pos- 
sibly easier  for  her  then  than  at  a  later  period,  to  lay 
aside  personal  antagonisms  or  prejudices  and  put 

[20] 


herself  into  another's  place.  She  was  talking  one  day 
of  a  charming  but  insincere  woman  who  had  been 
disloyal  to  her.  To  my  surprise,  she  spoke  of  her  in 
terms  of  strong  admiration,  dwelling  upon  her  gra- 
cious manners,  her  quiet  savoirfaire,  and  a  certain 
winning  tact  in  her  dealings  with  the  world. 

"I  thought  you  looked  upon  her  as  untrue,"  I  said, 
"and  here  you  are  lauding  her  to  the  skies.  Have 
you  forgiven  her?" 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  "the  fact  that  she  doesn't  like 
me  or  is  not  true  to  me  makes  no  difference  in  my 
opinion  of  whatever  fine  qualities  she  may  have.  I 
may  not  trust  her,  but  I  admire  people  for  what  they 
are,  not  for  their  attitude  toward  me.  Often  those 
I  find  most  fascinating  do  not  care  for  me  at  all.  If 
she  is  not  very  true,  she  is  pretty,  and  graceful,  and 
agreeable.  These  things  count  for  a  great  deal.  One 
can't  be  everything." 

It  was  probably  a  liking  of  the  qualities  rather 
than  of  the  woman,  but  youth  is  not  apt  to  discrimi- 
nate in  that  way.  Besides,  she  had  a  sanguine  tem- 
perament and  her  personal  feelings  were  notably 
strong. 


[21] 


Ill 

IT  WAS  in  1865  that  I  first  saw  Franklin  MacVeagh. 
After  leaving  the  Columbia  Law  School  he  had 
established  himself  in  the  law  firm  of  Lewis  &  Mac- 
Veagh, with  the  intention  of  making  New  York  his 
permanent  home.  But  Fate  has  an  inconvenient  way 
of  upsetting  one's  most  cherished  plans.  His  health 
failed  and  he  was  forbidden  by  his  physicians  to  con- 
tinue the  practice  of  the  profession  most  congenial 
to  him.  It  was  at  this  crisis  in  his  affairs  that  he 
came  to  Chicago  to  arrange  for  another  career.  I  re- 
member well  the  pleasant  July  evening  when  Emily 
first  called  with  him,  and  how  fresh  and  alive  she 
looked  with  her  brilliant  color  set  off  in  a  gown  of 
soft  white  silk.  Mr.  MacVeagh,  to  whom  she  had 
become  engaged  shortly  after  leaving  school  at  New 
Haven,  was  then  a  slender  and  rather  delicate  look- 
ing man  of  twenty-five,  with  clear-cut  features,  dark 
hair,  thoughtful  gray  eyes,  refined  manners,  intel- 
lectual tastes,  and  fine  ideals  which  have  found  a 
large  measure  of  realization  in  later  life.  At  that 
time  his  success  was  in  the  future.  What  seemed  at 
the  moment  to  be  an  unkind  fate  led  him  to  a  busi- 
ness career,  but  he  always  supplemented  a  necessary 

[22] 


devotion  to  affairs  by  an  unwavering  interest  in  the 
finer  things  of  life.  In  his  most  prosperous  days  he 
never  forgot  the  responsibilities  of  citizenship  and 
the  obligations  that  wealth  imposes.  Everything  that 
made  for  the  moral  uplifting  of  society  had  from  the 
beginning  his  cordial  support.  In  spite  of  the  cares 
and  perplexities  that  inevitably  come  in  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  large  business,  his  leisure  hours  were 
usually  given  to  matters  of  the  intellect.  He  was  a 
new  type  of  business  man  in  the  earlier  days  of 
Chicago,  and  in  all  that  concerned  its  social,  literary, 
and  artistic  interests  he  had  a  valuable  ally  in  his 
wife. 

On  that  pleasant  summer  evening  all  this  was  be- 
fore him,  but  the  underlying  strength  and  integrity 
of  his  character  made  themselves  felt  at  once  in  his 
conversation,  and  it  did  not  require  a  prophet  to 
foretell  what  would  grow  out  of  them  under  fair  con- 
ditions. 

But  a  scheme  of  life  had  to  be  made  out.  One 
cannot  always  think  or  dream.  One  must  act.  In 
Emily's  letters  to  me  during  my  absence  later  in  the 
season  she  speaks  of  the  change  in  their  plans.  As 
it  was  a  vital  turning-point  in  their  lives,  I  will  quote 
a  few  passages,  omitting  those  personal  to  myself, 
though  full  of  the  sympathy  and  affection  that  col- 
ored all  she  said  and  did: 

"And  now  let  me  tell  you  of  some  little  matters 
that  will  change  my  plans  since  they  will  change  my 

[23] 


place  of  residence.  You  know  of  course,  that  Frank 
has  been  quite  out  of  health  for  several  years.  A 
year  ago  last  May  he  left  New  York  at  a  grave  sacri- 
fice and  started  out  in  search  of  health.  Then  he 
expected  to  give  up  only  the  summer  months,  but 
finding  himself  unfit  for  the  laborious  work  of  his 
profession,  he  yielded  to  the  urgent  entreaties  of  his 
friends  and  gave  up  his  winter  also.  He  has  been 
greatly  benefited,  and  we  all  believe  is  on  the  sure 
road  to  recovery  if  he  is  only  careful  in  the  future. 
His  brother  Wayne  and  his  physicians  think  that  all 
this  time  will  have  been  thrown  away  if  he  goes  back 
to  New  York  and  to  the  law,  for,  in  the  first  place, 
he  cannot  live  in  New  York  as  he  is  now,  in  the  sec- 
ond, he  cannot  live  if  he  studies.  Study  is  such  a 
mania  with  him  that,  although  he  might  make  the 
best  of  promises  in  regard  to  it,  he  could  not  be 
trusted.  At  first  he  strongly  opposed  the  change,  but 
the  wishes  of  his  friends,  my  anxiety,  and  I  think 
his  own  dawning  convictions,  have  helped  to  recon- 
cile him,  and  he  has  consented,  at  least  for  the  pres- 
ent. He  has  dissolved  his  partnership  in  New  York 
and  entered  into  a  business  connection  with  three 
other  men  here  in  Chicago,  which  is  to  come  into 
effect  the  first  of  September.  This  is  all  that  Frank 
wishes  any  of  his  friends  to  know,  and  perhaps  he 
would  think  that  I  was  violating  confidence  in  ad- 
ding that  he  is  not  of  the  kind  to  rest  content  with 
trade  and  commerce,  and  that  he  does  not  intend  to. 

[24] 


This  bit  is  exclusively  inter  nos,  you  will  understand, 
my  dear.  I  shall  not  tell  anybody  else,  but  wait  for 
time.  But  we  have  talked — and  I  consider  you  more 
than  a  friend.  Then  he  already  feels  very  kindly 
towards  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be  interested  in  him 
and  like  him  all  you  can.  Do  you  know,  the  most 
delightful  part  of  this  change  will  be  the  pleasure  of 
living  near  you.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  seen  anything  of  Mr.  L.  or  the  book 
yet?  He  declined  to  see  any  company  here  the  even- 
ing he  called.  He  only  heard  people  in  the  next  room 
and  that  was  sufficient.  Isn't  he  peculiar  in  these 
matters?  .  .  . 

"I  am  intensely  interested  just  now  in  studying 
the  forms  of  the  various  governments  and  the  soci- 
ology of  nations.  Have  you  ever  given  any  attention 
to  the  subject?  I  have  never  made  it  a  study  before 
and  find  an  interest  in  it  that  is  quite  surprising. 
There  are  so  many  things  to  accomplish  in  this  life 
that  I  almost  despair  of  ever  doing  anything  worth 
while,  yet  I  have  all  the  time  that  anybody  has  I 
am  quite  sure. 

"I  will  send  you  the  Nation  tomorrow  and  the 
prospectus  of  the  coming  Round  Table.  Are  you 
writing  anything  now?  How  is  your  strength  serving 
you?  I  shall  await  your  coming  letter  with  great 
anxiety." 

In  another  letter,  a  propos  of  some  question  that 
came  up  at  this  time,  she  writes: 

[25] 


"The  greatest  power  in  the  universe  is  love.  Our 
Saviour  has  placed  it  not  only  above  all  the  qualities 
of  virtue,  but  has  raised  it  to  the  front  rank  among 
the  great  agencies  of  life;  for  it  was  love  in  its  simple 
purity  that  brought  Him  down  from  Heaven.  It  is 
the  excellence  of  woman's  nature  that  it  is  the  earthly 
garden  of  this  Divine  quality.  It  is  the  great  honor 
and  dignity  of  her  nature  that  God  has  given  her  the 
possession  of  this  mightiest  moral  agency  in  all  the 
world,  and,  in  the  great  chain  of  cause  and  effect,  has 
placed  her  one  link,  one  long  link  nearer  the  angels 
and  Himself  than  are  her  brothers.  .  .  . 

"Frank  and  Ned  Mason  have  finally  decided  to 
take  a  little  trip  to  the  Upper  Lakes  and  will  start 
on  Monday.  They  will  return  in  time  to  join  our 
party  for  the  St.  Lawrence,  Thousand  Islands,  and 
White  Mountains. 

"But  revenons  a  nos  moutons.  I  have  been  'doing 
up'  the  Quarterly  Reviews  in  which  I  was  late,  think- 
ing over  and  discussing  them.  Now  my  time  is  taken 
up  with  Thiers's  French  Revolution.  I  am  much  in- 
terested in  France  just  now  and  am  making  a  little 
study  of  it.  I  have  finished  Horace  Bynner  Wallace's 
book  on  art  and  travels.  Someone  has  said  that  he 
is  an  artist  without  ever  having  painted  a  picture 
and  a  poet  without  ever  having  written  a  line.  His 
book  is  pleasant  without  being  great,  and  specially 
interesting  to  me  because  it  takes  a  different  view  of 
art  from  those  I  have  been  reading  of  late.  .  .  . 

[26] 


"You  know  that  I  am  interested  in  all  you  are  do- 
ing and  in  all  that  interests  you,  and  you  cannot  be 
too  graphic  in  anything  that  concerns  yourself.  .  .  . 

"Mr.  L.  was  here  for  a  few  minutes  but  would  not 
stay  because  there  was  company.   He  is  going  to 
send  you  Matthew  Arnold's  Essays  tomorrow." 
Later  she  writes  again: 

"We  have  had  such  a  crowd  of  visitors  ever  since 
my  return  home  that  I  have  found  letter-writing  al- 
most an  impossibility.  Nevertheless,  I  have  kept  you 
very  near  in  my  heart  and  thoughts.  I  have  drawn 
pictures  of  you  every  day  and  longed  to  be  with  you. 
I  suppose  you  have  been  doing  an  immense  amount 
of  reading,  while  I  have  scarcely  found  time  to  look 
inside  of  a  book  and  that,  too,  just  as  all  the  Quar- 
terlies are  coming  in  again  and  seem,  from  the  slight 
glance  I  have  given  them,  to  be  steeped  in  richness. 
Mr.  L.  called  yesterday  and  I  gave  him  the  West- 
minster^ as  he  had  not  seen  it.  ... 

"I  don't  know  much  more  about  my  European 
plans  than  I  did  when  I  last  wrote.  There  are  so 
many  persons  and  matters  to  consider  that  it  is  al- 
most impossible  to  say  how  things  will  turn  out  yet, 
though  I  shall  probably  wait  until  February.  Al- 
ready I  begin  to  dream  of  some  delightful  studies 
that  we  must  take  up  together  if  I  am  here." 


[27] 


IV 

MR.  L.,  to  whom  she  refers  in  her  letters,  was  a 
man  of  rare  learning  and  still  rarer  intellectual 
quality,  whom  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  the 
preceding  year  while  visiting  friends.  He  was  born 
in  Russian  Poland,  partly  educated  in  Germany,  and 
became  afterwards  an  ardent  disciple  of  Sir  William 
Hamilton  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  was  for  some  time 
a  student.  With  a  fine  literary  taste,  philosophical 
ideals,  and  a  responsive  temperament,  he  lived  in  the 
upper  air  of  the  intellect  and  was  a  perpetual  inspir- 
ation. The  literature  and  the  best  thought  of  the 
world  were  at  his  command.  He  was  no  pedant,  but 
his  mind  ranged  at  ease  in  the  fields  of  knowledge. 
He  was  born  a  critic  in  the  best  sense  of  that  word, 
and  only  his  super-exalted  ideals  kept  him  from  tak- 
ing his  place  among  the  lights  of  the  day.  Careless 
as  to  matters  of  form,  he  was  in  no  sense  a  man  of 
society,  but  a  rare  conversational  charm  and  some- 
thing in  him  akin  to  genius  which  never  found  ade- 
quate expression,  made  one  forget  small  eccentricities 
which  were  due  to  his  strong  individuality  and  a 
naive  unconsciousness  or  disregard  of  conventional 
values.  He  was  a  sort  of  Socrates,  or  a  modified  Dr. 

[28] 


Johnson,  and  if  some  Boswell  had  been  near  to  record 
his  words  they  would  have  been  a  veritable  gift  to 
the  world. 

"Mr.  L.  was  always  a  Prince  in  our  house  and 
everything  else  had  to  give  way  to  him,"  I  heard  Mr. 
MacVeagh  say  many  years  afterward.  He  was  a 
constant  visitor  there  until  his  death  nearly  twenty- 
five  years  later.  But  he  could  never  be  brought  to 
meet  other  company  unless  it  were  some  man  or 
woman  of  special  gifts  whom  he  thought  worth  while 
on  his  own  ground.  With  the  small  persiflage  of  a 
crowd  he  had  no  patience.  To  him  it  was  the  "ex- 
change of  noodledom." 

If  I  have  dwelt  a  little  on  this  remarkable  man 
who  failed  to  make  himself  heard  above  the  din  of 
modern  life,  it  is  because  of  the  keen  intellectual  en- 
thusiasms he  brought  into  the  lives  of  the  few  he 
loved  and  admired  to  the  end.  I  have  often  heard 
him  speak  in  warm  terms  of  the  fine  quality  of  char- 
acter in  Mr.  MacVeagh,  which  led  him  to  apply  to 
the  bettering  of  human  conditions  many  of  the  prin- 
ciples that  he  himself  held  only  as  untried  theories. 

The  influence  of  such  a  man  in  modifying  a  wo- 
man of  impressionable  nature  and  flexible  tastes,  may 
readily  be  imagined.  We  are,  after  all,  the  sum  of 
what  has  gone  into  our  experience,  and  a  little  more 
or  a  little  less  of  one  thing  or  another  goes  far  towards 
giving  a  special  distinction  to  any  individuality. 
Emily  Eames  had  the  quality  of  taking  from  others 

[29] 


what  would  best  fit  into  her  own  plan  of  life.  As  I 
have  already  said,  she  liked  to  see  results  and  never 
approved  of  putting  one's  ideals  so  high  as  to  inter- 
fere with  the  practical  working  of  things.  In  this 
case,  however,  she  recognized  the  value  of  the  ideals 
in  creating  fine  standards,  but  she  would  apply  them 
in  her  own  way.  She  would  never  sacrifice  an  attain- 
able reality  to  an  unattainable  ideal.  Then  she  was 
impressed  with  the  wisdom  of  this  mentor,  who  had 
a  special  niche  of  his  own.  Besides,  he  was  unique 
and  interesting.  But  while  her  mind  was  to  some 
extent  permanently  colored  by  his  views  of  things, 
she  was  never  turned  far  from  the  direction  in  which 
her  dominant  tastes  led  her.  And  these  were  emi- 
nently social. 

At  this  time,  however,  she  was  gathering  mater- 
ials for  future  use.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  new 
era  when  science  was  to  throw  in  the  background 
many  of  the  great  thinkers  of  the  past,  but  the 
equilibrium  between  the  old  and  the  new  was  still 
preserved,  and  the  material  side  of  things  was  not 
yet  the  master  it  soon  became,  even  in  the  world  of 
thought.  Many  long  discussions  we  had  on  the  intel- 
lectual and  political  drift  of  affairs.  That  we  had  the 
optimism  of  youth  goes  without  saying,  but  Mr.  L., 
who  was  a  close  student  of  history  and  political 
economy,  often  questioned  the  ultimate  result  of  so 
much  uniformity  of  aim.  The  effect  upon  literature 
he  specially  deplored.  But  for  the  moment  we  were 


rich  in  dreams,  and  troubled  ourselves  little  about 
what  was  to  come.  We  were  not  yet  flooded  with 
books  written  solely  for  money,  and  dealing  mainly 
with  social  problems  and  the  dark  side  of  a  wicked 
world.  Those  who  read  were  not  seeking  crude  re- 
flections of  themselves  or  the  greatest  amount  of 
diversion  with  the  least  mental  effort.  The  latest 
novel  was  from  the  pen  of  Dickens,  or  Thackeray,  or 
George  Eliot,  or  Hawthorne,  or  Victor  Hugo,  or  pos- 
sibly Dumas.  In  my  records  of  those  full  days  there 
are  many  notes  of  the  books  we  read  and  the  things 
we  talked  about.  Novels  were  not  uppermost,  but 
it  was  the  day  of  great  novels  and  they  were  not 
neglected.  Tourguenieff's  Fathers  and  Sons  had  just 
been  translated  by  the  brilliant  young  diplomat, 
Eugene  Schuyler,  and  opened  to  us  new  perspectives 
in  Russian  life.  The  idyllic  simplicity  of  Arne  took 
us  among  the  peasants  of  Norway  and  we  marked 
with  a  red  letter  the  name  of  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. 
We  searched  out  everything  that  bore  the  stamp  of 
genius,  and  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  waste 
time  .over  hopeless  mediocrity.  Ruskin  was  at  the 
height  of  his  glory — a  perpetual  joy  and  inspiration. 
I  think  we  loved  in  him  the  poet  more  than  the  critic. 
We  reveled  in  the  beauties  of  Tennyson  and  Swin- 
burne, worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  the  classics,  but 
thought  that,  after  all,  our  sympathies  were  with  the 
great  romantics  who  were  to  be  the  classics  of  the 
future.  We  looked  eagerly  for  something  new  from 


Carlyle  or  Taine,  read  the  Edinburgh  and  Westmin- 
ster Reviews,  pinned  our  faith  to  the  Nation,  and 
speculated  on  the  theories  of  Darwin  and  Huxley. 
I  don't  remember  that  we  felt  at  all  learned,  but  the 
grasp  and  power  of  Buckle,  the  brilliant  generaliza- 
tions of  Lecky,  the  critical  insight  and  exquisite  style 
of  Matthew  Arnold,  never  lost  their  fascination  for 
us.  Emerson  we  quoted  as  a  sage  and  philosopher; 
Lowell  and  the  Atlantic  group  were  our  pride.  Some- 
how we  loved  high  themes  and,  without  any  preten- 
sions to  scholarship,  went  to  the  heart  of  things  as 
no  one  has  the  time  to  do  today. 

I  cannot  give  a  better  idea  of  the  intimate  atmos- 
phere in  which  we  lived  and  the  things  in  which  we 
were  interested,  than  by  quoting  from  Mr.  L.'s  let- 
ters to  myself  during  his  absence  from  the  city,  in 
the  autumn  of  1865.  He  had  taken  with  him  Lecky 's 
History  of  Rationalism,  and  wrote  in  the  first  burst 
of  enthusiasm  after  coming  in  contact  with  a  mind 
that  roused  and  fascinated  him.  With  a  word  of  in- 
troduction he  launches  into  a  critical  appreciation 
which  I  should  be  glad  to  copy  in  full  but  for  its 
length.  A  part  will  suffice  for  my  purpose.  Referring 
to  Lecky,  he  says: 

"His  mind  is  wonderfully  aggressive.  You  must 
stand  on  your  guard  or  you  are  lost.  .  .  .  One  of 
the  clear-sighted,  insinuating  thinkers  that  you  rarely 
come  across.  With  the  exception  of  Buckle  and  Mill, 
he  has  no  peer  in  the  agility  with  which  he  throws 

[32] 


an  antagonist  by  force  of  mere  personality,  by  the 
mere  beckoning  to  come — 'follow  me.'  I  have  read 
only  a  few  pages,  yet  I  feel  that  I  must  bow  and  walk 
gently  before  the  awful  majesty  of  thought.  .  .  . 
After  all  said  of  Emerson's  mysticism,  his  great  aph- 
orism, 'Beware  when  the  good  God  lets  loose  a 
thinker,'  is  eternally  true.  .  .  . 

"He  (Lecky)  has  a  wonderful  mind.  The  master- 
ing of  his  materials,  the  marvelous  manipulation,  the 
masterly  disintegration  of  elements,  the  power  of 
sublimating  and  re-distilling,  are  beyond  that  of  any 
living  man.  He  is  literally  the  Joshua  of  thinking. 
He  commands  the  facts  that  have  been  drifting  for 
the  last  three  centuries,  and  they  stand  still  at  his 
behest.  I  promise  myself  to  be  worth  more,  to  be 
actually  rich,  and  to  have  a  large  bank  account  of  far 
more  value  than  a  National  currency.  .  .  . 

"Let  Mr.  MacVeagh  and  Miss  Eames  and  you  at 
once  obtain  an  introduction  to  that  man  and  I  pro- 
mise it  will  pay  you.  You  will  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  topography  of  European  thought, 
its  navigable  rivers,  its  capacity  for  production.  The 
chemistry  of  history  will  become  intelligible,  and  the 
atomic  relation  of  facts  will  become  manageable. 
Fling  behind  you  the  vexations  of  wherewith  to  ... 
and  place  yourself  in  the  anteroom  of  a  peer  in  the 
realm  of  thought.  I  will  assure  you  of  a  fine  recep- 
tion. How  kindly  he  will  speak  to  you!  How  sooth- 
ing! For  he  loves  truth  and  nothing  else. 

[33] 


"Why  do  you  women  not  become  Hypatias — live 
for  philosophy? 

"I  have  talked  longer  than  I  intended,  but  I  am 
full  to  overflowing  with  a  powerful  presence.  If  you 
feel  like  writing,  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you 
all.  .  .  .  Why  not  ask  Miss  Eames  to  send  me  the 
Westminster!" 

A  few  days  later,  while  still  under  the  spell  of 
his  first  enthusiasm,  he  writes  again: 

"I  am  still  with  my  newly  acquired  friend,  Mr. 
Lecky.  I  am  as  still  as  a  mouse,  I  am  as  patient  as 
a  child,  I  dare  hardly  breathe  while  he  is  talking  to 
me.  His  truth-loving  words  still  charm  me.  Truth 
is  the  ingrained,  predominant  element  in  his  nature. 
He  moves  up  and  down  the  whole  vista  of  history 
so  gently,  yet  so  firmly,  that  he  astonishes  you  and 
you  wonder  how  a  man  with  such  slow  steps  makes 
such  quick  progress.  The  little  pebbles  he  has  in  his 
slings  prove  deadly  to  the  Goliath  liars  that  are  in- 
festing our  historical  literature.  What  Henry  Buckle 
tried  to  do  with  the  vast  expenditure  of  parade  and 
machinery  of  intellectual  ostentation,  he,  simple  as 
a  child,  taking  the  ecclesiastical  skein  and  disentang- 
ling it  with  the  utmost  composure,  does  by  showing 
you  that  the  colors  are  not  fast,  that  if  you  only 
destroy  the  holy  and  sacred  strand  you  will  find 
flimsy  work  on  the  ecclesiastical  loom,  and  that  the 
workers,  poor  things,  have  cheated  themselves  and 
others.  Yet  he  reproaches  nobody.  He  arraigns  no 

[34] 


one  for  dereliction  of  duty.  But,  as  a  lover  of  truth, 
he  hates  cant,  impudence,  and  he  thinks  it  better  to 
be  told,  and  he  does  tell.  .  .  . 

"Mr.  MacVeagh  and  his  'Julie'  have  my  regards. 
The  Westminster?" 

I  will  add  still  another  letter  written  under  this 
same  domination.  But  the  spell  is  weakening.  It 
shows  the  trend  of  a  critical  mind: 

"My  friend:  Twelve  hours  more  and  the  year  will 
be  of  the  bygones.  That  is,  imagination  makes  the 
fictitious  boundary.  Philosophically  speaking,  we 
have  no  ground  for  any  such  boundaries.  But  no 
more  of  that. 

"Today  is  Sunday  and  I  am  with  my  dear  friend 
Lecky.  I  am  about  to  depart  from  him  for  he  is 
about  done  talking  and  I  must  be  talked  to,  so  an- 
other friend  will  have  to  take  his  place.  My  opinion 
of  his  capacities  and  mental  vision  has  not  changed. 
And  yet?  He  too,  is  mortal.  He  too  nods.  It  is  the 
fatal  malady  of  all  reasoners  to  string  their  arrows 
too  tight,  and,  before  they  are  aware  of  it,  the  strings 
snap  and  become  loose.  To  the  latter  end  he  be- 
comes sluggish,  turbid.  He  moves  majestically  but 
not  with  the  same  calm  consciousness  that  I  found 
in  him  at  first.  You  feel  that  his  pilgrimage  to  his 
Mecca  must  be  done  and  so  he  has  pluck  to  do  it. 
But  what  do1 1  care  for  "his  pluck?  It  is  the  joyous 
elasticity  of  his  mind  I  want,  the  gushing  of  the  liv- 
ing waters  from  the  rock.  It  is  not  the  ceremonies 

[35] 


of  a  Moses,  his  attitude  to  strike  the  barren  rock, 
that  interest  me,  but  the  sight  of  the  hungry  masses 
slaking  their  thirst,  laving  their  feet  in  the  cool 
water. 

"If  you  see  Mr.  MacVeagh,  give  him  my  regards. 
By  all  means  let  him  read  the  book.  My  regards  to 
Miss  Eames.  Let  her  prepare  herself  for  Buckle, 
Comte  after  that,  and  I  will  guarantee  a  glorious 
harvest.  Then  you  will  talk  about  what  you  thought, 
not  about  what  you  read.  Adieu." 

I  find  it  difficult  to  omit  much  from  this  remark- 
able bit  of  criticism  which  was  written  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment  while  traveling.  But  it  has  a  distinct 
value  of  its  own  as  the  opinion  of  a  contemporary 
when  the  book  appeared,  and  value  of  another  sort 
in  showing  the  quality  of  a  mind  which  had  so  per- 
manent an  influence  on  those  who  came  in  contact 
with  it. 

Again  he  writes  at  the  close  of  another  letter: 

:'You  mention  Christabel  to  me.  I  think  it  the 
most  musical  piece  of  composition  in  the  English 
language,  that  I  ever  read.  I  stand  indebted  to  Cole- 
ridge for  a  great  deal.  You  and  all  women  should 
become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  that  wonderful 
man.  .  .  . 

"Lecky  forever!  You  seem  to  think  my  currency 
would  be  at  a  discount.  I  always  expect  it.  I  live 
among  men,  but  I  am  really  not  of  them.  I  am  as 
much  alone  when  I  do  business  as  I  am  in  my 
room.  .  .  . 

[36] 


"This  week  must  make  you  write  if  you  can  and 
tell  me  what  you  girls  are  doing.  Somehow,  I  can- 
not separate  you  from  Miss  Eames.  My  regards  to 
her." 

After  a  curious  experience  with  an  old  friend  who 
did  not  comprehend  his  unconventional  ways,  he 
writes: 

"There  is  nothing  inwrought  in  the  American 
heart.  The  capacity  for  subjectivity  is  feeble.  It 
deals  with  the  objective,  the  There  it  is.  Hence  it 
is  a  formal  life — respectable,  but  nothing  more. — 
Enough. 

"By  the  way,  I  called  on  Mrs.  H.  She  was  not  as 
open,  elastic.  Her  eyes  were  not  so  piercing.  That 
intellectual  halo  which  shone  around  her  head  when 
I  saw  her  last,  was  not  there.  And  so  the  charm  was 
gone — and  I  too  was  gone. 

"I  am  beginning  to  think  that  there  is  no  reliance 
to  be  placed  on  the  halcyon  moments  of  women.  I 
can  always  realize  my  anticipation  of  pleasure  from  a 
man  who  once  gave  evidence  of  mind.  I  am  sure 
that  by  a  little  friction  I  will  succeed  in  thawing  the 
ice  out  of  him.  But  not  so  with  women.  By  conta- 
gion I  catch  the  same  disease  and  become  inactive, 
lazy,  and  then  I  retreat.  I  feel  sorry  in  this  case 
because  Mrs.  H.  has  an  actual  reservoir,  a  mind  of 
capacity,  and  I  am  vexed  when  I  meet  with  that 
class  of  mind  and  fail  to  enrich  my  experience.  She 
wished  to  be  remembered  to  you  and  Miss  Eames. 

[37] 


"Have  you  sent  me  the  Westminster? 

"Tell  Mr.  MacVeagh  the  next  time  I  meet  him  I 
shall  have  something  to  speak  about  and  think  of. 
In  the  meantime,  let  him  read  Lecky  on  Rationalism. 
The  most  masterly  effort  in  that  direction  since 
Buckle,  and  he  has  the  advantage  over  B.,  I  think. 
It  will  not  hurt  you  and  Miss  Eames  to  read  it." 
He  sent  me  the  book  with  the  hope  that  I  should 
enjoy  the  reading  of  his  "dethroned  friend."  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  I  did,  though  we  had  many 
lively  skirmishes  over  his  sceptical  spirit. 

A  propos  of  a  satirical  arraignment  of  his  icono- 
clasm,  he  writes  later: 

;'Your  letter  pleased  me  much.  The  novelty  of 
the  strong  spice,  the  fine-edged  shafts  that  occasion- 
ally were  thrown  at  me  gave  a  real  zest.  Who  would 
not  like  to  be  called  a  Swift,  even  if  ironically?  re- 
fuse the  laurel  of  being  classed  with  Jean  Paul?  In 
a  word,  I  felt  that  it  paid  better  to  displease  than  to 
please  you.  I  am  confirmed  in  my  opinion  that  your 
vocation  is  the  satirist.  There  is  the  field  where  you 
can  reach  the  highest  height.  I  bowed  submissively 
as  the  shafts  flew  at  me,  and  felt  a  sensation  of 
pleasure  to  see  the  dexterity  of  the  hand  that  aimed 
so  accurately.  What  a  grand  theme  Lecky  furnished 
you  with!  There  stood  the  selfish  man,  heartless, 
feelingless.  Bent  on  nothing  but  the  present.  Car- 
ing for  nobody  but  himself  and,  after  drawing  enjoy- 
ment from  everything,  become  an  iconoclast.  Revel- 

[38] 


ing  in  the  occupation  of  breaking,  forsaking  the  idols. 
I  was  the  embodiment  of  all  that.  Your  pen  man- 
ipulated it  in  a  masterly  way.  Thank  you  for  the 
picture.  Yet  I  felt  no  remorse.  Must  I  forever  be 
objective?  Must  I  count  the  beads  to  prove  the 
worship?  Never.  Lecky  is  not  dethroned,  Thack- 
eray is  not  degraded  because  some  one  else  is  in  their 
place.  .  .  . 

'You  seem  to  counsel  me  to  stop  caring  for  noodle- 
dom.  In  other  words,  insinuating  that  I  myself  am 
not  free  from  this  mania,  and  etcoeteras^  'that  I  can 
give  no  better  substitute.'  I  quite  agree  with  you. 
I  am  not  constructive.  I  only  possess  an  eye  to 
detect  the  error,  but  shall  I  abdicate  that  faculty 
simply  because  I  have  no  other?  That  indeed  would 
be  poor  logic.  .  .  . 

"In  a  few  days  I  shall  be  in  Chicago  and  will  at- 
tend in  person  at  the  court  to  receive  the  merited 
punishment.  Please  read  meanwhile  Bentham's  the- 
ory of  punishment.  I  think  it  will  lighten  the  penal 
code  for  such  cases  as  mine. 

"My  regards  to  Miss  Eames.  If  she  feels  herself 
aggrieved  at  my  conduct — which  I  doubt  very  much 
— you  can  tell  her  if  she  cannot  rely  on  my  honor 
that  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  do  otherwise, 
then  apologies  are  in  vain.  By  the  way,  that  is  my 
code  on  friendship — at  least,  a  part  of  it." 

I  think  this  had  reference  to  some  failure  to  ap- 
pear when  expected. 

[39] 


I  do  not  know  where  to  stop  in  quoting  these 
unique  letters  of  a  unique  man,  which  really  have  no 
place  here  except  as  they  throw  light  on  the  doings 
and  thinkings  of  two  rather  strenuous  young  women. 
It  is  as  true  now  as  when  it  was  said  by  Mme.  de 
Sevigne,  that  serious  reading  is  needed  to  "give  solid 
colors  to  the  mind."  It  is  certain  that  we  had  serious 
reading  and  a  good  deal  of  it.  Without  being  very 
profound  students,  we  were  gathering  the  best 
thought  of  the  time,  and  assimilating  it,  each  in  her 
own  way.  It  is  easy  enough  to  understand  that  a 
woman  very  much  bent  on  the  "how"  things  are  to 
be  done,  is  not  likely  to  lose  herself  in  the  mysteries 
and  profundities  of  critical  thought,  though  she  may 
be  tempered  by  it.  Emily  had  a  pleasure-loving 
temperament  and  the  tastes  of  youth.  While  she 
was  interested  to  a  certain  point  in  serious  questions 
she  liked  a  great  many  other  things.  The  days  of 
clubs  and  afternoon  teas,  which  steal  away  so  much 
of  the  time  of  the  modern  woman,  had  not  yet 
dawned.  Gaiety  there  was  in  abundance,  but  it  was 
limited  largely  to  evening  affairs,  dances,  theatres, 
and  concerts.  There  were  evenings  when  we  listened 
with  hushed  reverence  to  Beethoven,  Mozart,  and 
other  masters,  as  interpreted  by  the  Philharmonic 
Orchestra.  We  were  proud  of  it  then,  but  it  fell  in 
pieces  long  ago,  after  fulfilling  its  little  mission.  So 
men  ".  .  .  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things." 

[40] 


But  these  were  asides,  like  the  picture  galleries 
we  haunted — when  there  were  any.  The  main  note 
of  life  was  a  serious  and  earnest  one  on  the  intellec- 
tual side,  with  all  these  things  for  accompaniments. 
The  enthusiasms  of  the  mind  were  uppermost.  What 
we  lacked  in  knowledge  we  made  up  in  reverence  for 
all  that  stood  for  it.  I  remember  well  a  Madame 
d'Hericourt  who  came  here  with  the  glamour  of  exile 
about  her,  and  gave  talks  on  everything  pertaining 
to  French  literature  and  society,  not  forgetting  poli- 
tics and  philosophy.  Just  why  she  was  exiled  I  never 
knew,  but  I  have  recently  run  across  her  in  some 
reminiscences  of  Madame  Adam,  who  was  the  pre- 
siding genius  of  a  noted  political  salon  in  Paris.  She 
belonged,  it  seems,  to  a  circle  of  philosophers  and 
litterateurs  to  whom  she  was  best  known  as  the  writer 
of  a  spirited  reply  to  Proudhon  and  his  revolutionary 
theories,  but  a  caustic  and  bitter  temper  put  her  out 
of  sympathy  with  her  friends,  who  were  among  the 
noted  thinkers  of  the  time,  and  she  vanished  for 
some  unknown  reason  to  appear  in  this  then  remote 
corner  of  the  world.  She  was  old  and  poor,  with  a 
brilliant  intellect  and  a  fiery  spirit  which  adversity 
had  not  tamed.  Many  of  the  subjects  she  discussed 
were  serious  ones,  as  her  mind  had  a  distinctly  philo- 
sophical bent,  yet  her  lectures  were  novel  and  full 
of  spice.  She  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  the 
salons,  and  was  familiar  with  the  philosophical  coterie 
that  revolved  about  the  Comtesse  d'Agoult,  the 

[41] 


brilliant  friend  of  Liszt  and  the  mother  of  Madame 
Wagner.  But  its  free  tone  did  not  please  her,  and 
she  had  evidently  been  more  or  less  embroiled  with 
some  of  these  clever  men  and  women  who  did  not 
relish  her  caustic  strictures  on  their  theories  of  life. 
Naturally  her  comments  were  amusing  as  well  as 
instructive.  Emily  was  greatly  interested  in  her  con- 
versations, and  exerted  herself  to  find  pupils  and 
classes  for  her.  Later,  she  had  conversation  morn- 
ings in  her  own  house.  I  do  not  recall  just  when 
Mme.  d'Hericourt  left.  The  last  time  I  saw  her  she 
stopped  me  in  the  street  with  tears  rolling  down  her 
wrinkled  cheeks.  "Je  suis  triste,  je  suis  triste,"  she 
said,  "et  je  suis  si  pauvre."  And  so  she  went  out  of 
our  lives,  after  sowing  seeds  that  bore  fruit  at  a 
later  period.  I  have  often  wondered  what  became  of 
her.  A  brilliant,  dominant  spirit,  she  came  to  the 
surface  of  life  for  a  few  troubled  years,  found  fate 
too  strong  for  her,  and  with  a  cry  of  despair  went 
down  in  darkness  and  silence. 


[42] 


V 

IN  THE  spring  of  1866,  Emily  went  with  a  party 
of  friends  to  New  Orleans  and  Cuba,  bringing 
back  memories  of  many  agreeable  happenings.  Soon 
after  her  return  I  left  town  for  several  months  and 
the  records  of  her  life  during  that  time  are  found 
only  in  a  rather  broken  correspondence.  She  was 
much  taken  up  with  preparations  for  her  approach- 
ing marriage,  but  she  found  time  to  write  me  of 
some  of  her  doings  and  many  of  her  interests.  Mr. 
MacVeagh  was  seriously  ill  in  the  summer,  and  dur- 
ing his  convalescence  she  writes: 

"I  have  gotten  hold  of  some  new  books  which  I 
have  been  reading  to  Frank  since  he  has  been  able 
to  listen.  One  is  Ecce  Homo,  by  an  anonymous 
author.  He  is  evidently  an  English  Broad  Church- 
man and  a  man  of  much  power.  I  want  you  to  read 
the  book.  The  other  is  a  series  of  charming  lectures 
on  the  Study  of  History,  by  Professor  Goldwin  Smith 
of  Oxford." 

In  a  letter  written  from  Ottawa  a  little  later,  she 
says: 

"The  first  three  days  I  was  here  I  read  Carlyle's 
Stirling  and  Miss  Edgeworth's  Belinda.  The  former 

[43] 


is  the  most  delightful  biography  I  ever  read,  to  my 
thinking,  inimitable.  Nevertheless,  I  am  saturated 
with  Carlyleisms.  Carlyle  has  undoubtedly  made 
valuable  additions  to  our  vocabulary,  but  not  enough 
to  compensate  for  the  immoderate  vulgarisms  he 
makes  use  of.  The  latter  book  is  pleasing  enough, 
but  Miss  Edgeworth  is  undeniably  of  the  early  date 
of  novel-writing.  .  .  . 

"I  am  enjoying  Mrs.  Henshaw  all  I  can.  She 
shines  in  new  splendor  every  time  I  see  her." 

These  are  only  brief  extracts  from  letters  which 
were  full  of  her  social  doings  and  talk  of  her  friends 
new  and  old.  Perhaps  their  greatest  charm  lay  in 
the  unvarying  love  and  sympathy  that  gave  them 
warmth  and  life.  Late  in  the  summer  she  wrote  me 
of  her  coming  marriage: 

"  My  sweet  friend :  I  received  your  letter  addressed 
to  Ottawa  last  night  and  I  shall  answer  at  once  while 
I  have  a  moment  of  my  own.  I  told  you  that  I  was 
to  be  married  this  fall  and  I  have  been  so  hurried 
since  the  day  was  decided  upon  that  I  have  not  been 
able  to  attend  to  much  else  than  the  necessary  prepa- 
rations which  have  to  be  made  for  such  an  event.  I 
am  to  be  married  at  five  o'clock  on  Tuesday  after- 
noon, October  second,  with  reception  from  six  to 
nine.  I  shall  ask  about  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
to  attend  the  ceremony — only  my  relatives  and  spe- 
cial friends,  and  some  people  to  whom  I  am  indebted. 
I  am  to  have  six  bridesmaids.  Carrie  Caton  will  be 

[44] 


my  first,  then  Louise  Eames,  Ella  Hoes,  Miss  Mc- 
Carthy— a  niece  of  Frank's  who  is  to  be  married  her- 
self the  coming  winter— Henrietta  Butler,  and  my 
cousin,  Carrie  Gary  of  Milwaukee.  Wayne  Mac- 
Veagh,  Sherburne  Eaton,  Ned  Mason,  Major  Hop- 
kins, Arthur  Caton,  and  my  brother  Fred,  who  is 
to  stand  with  Carrie  Cary,  will  be  the  groomsmen. 
Mr.  Hapgood,  Norman  Williams,  and  General  Smith 
are  to  be  the  ushers.  Judge  and  Mrs.  Caton,  Mattie 
Brown,  Uncle  Lester,  and  my  father  and  mother 
comprise  the  bridal  party.  My  bridesmaids  are  going 
to  dress  alternately  in  white  silk  and  light  blue  satin, 
with  veils  and  a  lot  of  little  French  things  that  Carrie 
is  going  to  introduce  from  Paris.  My  dress,  as  I  have 
written  you,  is  of  heavy,  corded  white  silk.  There  is 
an  overdress  of  point  lace,  with  veil  and  bertha  to 
match.  This  point  lace  set,  with  a  collar,  sleeves, 
and  handkerchief,  is  my  bridal  present  from  my 
mother.  Uncle  Lester  has  given  me  a  silver  service, 
Carrie  Caton  a  pearl  necklace,  ear-rings,  and  pin.  I 
have  had  a  host  of  beautiful  presents  in  silver  and 
jewelry  already  given  me,  but  I  haven't  time  to 
write  about  them  now. 

"Frank  has  gone  to  New  York  and  will  be  absent 
about  two  weeks.  I  have  a  cousin  with  me  from 
New  York,  who  will  be  here  until  after  the  wedding. 
I  very  much  hope  you  will  return  by  October  first, 
but  in  your  present  condition  of  health  I  dare  not 
urge  it.  ... 

[45] 


"I  am  delighted  to  hear  that  you  have  found  such 
an  interesting  study  to  divert  you.  Don't  wear  your- 
self out  with  all  your  cares,  but  remember  you  have 
a  duty  to  yourself  which  is  always  as  great  as  any 
you  can  owe  to  any  one  else  whatever  or  whom- 
ever. .  .  . 

"I  never  in  all  my  life  have  had  so  much  to  do  as 
now.  I  wish  you  would  write  me  as  often  as  you 
can  without  waiting  for  me.  Write  all  about  your- 
self, your  thoughts  and  your  dreams. 

"General  Smith  has  come  and  I  must  go.  He  has 
been  nominated  for  State  Treasurer.  The  election  is 
to  come  off  in  November.  We  have  had  thousands 
of  visitors  here  this  week  in  consequence  of  Presi- 
dent Johnson's  visit. 

"With  great  love, 

"EMILY." 

This  letter  found  me  in  deep  sorrow,  watching 
the  slow  fading  of  a  life  and  trying  to  soften  the 
heart-breaking  grief  of  those  near  and  dear  to  me. 

On  October  2,  1866,  Emily  became  the  wife  of 
Franklin  MacVeagh.  I  was  too  ill  to  return  for  the 
wedding  and  it  was  several  months  before  I  saw  her 
again. 

As  I  look  back  upon  this  period  now  through  the 
mists  of  years,  it  seems  to  mark  the  definite  close  of 
one  phase  of  life  and  the  opening  of  a  new  one.  The 
old  aspirations  were  not  changed,  the  old  enthusi- 
asms were  not  dead,  the  old  affection  was  not  les- 

[46] 


sened,  but  the  joyous  irresponsibility  of  a  youthful 
friendship  is  inevitably  lost  in  the  pressing  duties  of 
even  the  most  care-free  married  life.  Dreams  must 
give  place  to  realities.  Life  is  centralized.  The  soul 
withdraws  behind  a  subtle  but  impenetrable  veil 
which  is  lifted  for  one  alone — sometimes  not  lifted 
at  all.  It  is  only  a  shadow.  One  cannot  define  it, 
but  it  is  there.  It  is  the  unconscious  shadow  that 
falls  sooner  or  later  between  all  human  relations,  to 
accent  the  intense  loneliness  of  life.  Perhaps  it  is  no 
more  than  the  extension  of  one's  horizon  towards 
regions  which  another  cannot  penetrate,  but  a  new 
element  has  come  in  and  the  scenes  are  shifted. 


[47] 


VI 

WITH  Emily's  marriage  came  new  interests  and 
new  duties  to  absorb  her  time.  But  she  brought 
to  bear  on  her  changed  life  all  the  tastes  and  pur- 
suits of  the  past,  which  were  by  no  means  dropped, 
though  they  were  turned  into  other  channels.  She 
inherited  many  of  the  strong  business  qualities  of 
her  father,  who  was  a  successful  man  of  affairs. 
Whatever  aims  she  had,  she  took  a  practical  road  to 
their  realization.  What  to  another  might  be  an  inter- 
esting fact  or  bit  of  knowledge,  she  appropriated  at 
once  as  something  that  could  be  utilized.  She  worked 
towards  tangible  ends.  Other  things  must  often  be 
sacrificed  to  win  success  on  specific  lines.  This  is  in 
itself  a  distinct  talent,  or  rather  combination  of  tal- 
ents. It  is  preeminently  an  American  gift,  if  it  may 
be  called  a  gift.  It  lies  at  the  root  of  great  business 
successes  among  men,  and  implies  executive  ability, 
with  a  fine  discrimination  of  values  as  related  to 
special  aims.  Among  women  it  is  the  talent  par  ex- 
cellence of  the  social  leader,  as  it  brings  into  play  a 
wide  range  of  intelligence  and  character.  It  was  to 
a  social  life  that  would  combine  the  charm  of  gra- 
cious manners  with  the  seriousness  of  a  finer  intelli- 

[48] 


gence  that  Emily  turned  her  thoughts,  and,  whether 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  the  tastes  and  interests 
of  her  youth  had  all  led  in  this  direction. 

I  remember  well  the  enthusiasm  she  brought  into 
the  arrangement  of  her  first  permanent  home  after 
her  marriage.  She  used  to  say  that  one  of  the  favor- 
ite amusements  of  her  childhood  had  been  the  draw- 
ing of  houses,  and  she  always  gave  so  much  space  to 
the  nursery  that  there  was  no  room  left  for  anything 
else.  She  had  outgrown  this  error  of  proportion,  but 
she  still  loved  to  plan  houses  and  was  not  at  all  con- 
tent to  pattern  them  after  those  about  her.  She 
must  have  artistic  surroundings  as  well  as  comforts. 
It  was  one  of  her  theories  that  people  express  them- 
selves in  the  building  and  furnishing  of  their  homes, 
just  as  they  do  in  the  making  of  books  and  pictures. 
And  this  was  what  she  did. 

It  was  just  after  the  great  fire  of  1871.  She  had 
lost  all  her  belongings,  and  her  father  had  given  her 
a  new  house  of  her  own,  on  Michigan  Avenue.  The 
furnishing  and  settling  of  this  house  were  a  keen 
delight  to  her.  Curiously  enough  the  only  book  she 
had  saved  from  the  flames  was  Eastlake's  Household 
Art)  which  she  diligently  studied.  But  she  was  not 
content  with  books.  She  went  to  New  York,  searched 
for  new  ideas,  and  gathered  her  materials  with  the 
aid  and  advice  of  some  artist  friends  whose  names 
have  since  reached  world-wide  fame.  In  her  scheme 
of  color,  her  decorations,  her  furnishings,  she  con- 

[49] 


suited  experts  in  design,  and  modified  their  plans  ac- 
cording to  her  own  taste.  The  result  was  a  novelty 
at  that  time,  when  decorative  art  was  usually  crude 
and  inartistic.  I  still  have  in  my  mind  a  vivid  pic- 
ture of  her  library  with  its  deep  dado  of  dark  blue 
velvet,  the  black  and  gold  Japanese  paper  above, 
which  served  as  a  background  for  a  few  choice  en- 
gravings, and  the  broad  frieze  of  robin's  egg  blue 
with  designs  in  Cashmere  color  extending  to  the  ceil- 
ing. In  the  drawing-room  gold  dolphins  darted  about 
in  a  sea  of  deeper  Roman  gold,  and  exquisite  Persian 
rugs  of  sapphire  tint  covered  the  inlaid  floor.  Some 
well-chosen  Turner  water  colors  adorned  the  walls. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  rooms  was  cool  and  restful. 
It  was  a  harmonious  setting  for  those  who  liked  to 
gather  there,  among  whom  were  included  many  rep- 
resentatives of  the  finest  culture  of  the  time.  Some 
had  already  won  distinction,  while  others  were  strug- 
gling towards  it.  Among  the  well-known  men  and 
women  who  shared  the  gracious  hospitality  of  the 
house  then  and  later,  were  Matthew  Arnold,  the  great 
Salvini,  Ristori  in  the  zenith  of  her  fame,  and  Oscar 
Wilde  in  his  palmy  days  when  his  brilliant  conversa- 
tion held  spellbound  the  admiring  groups  that  gath- 
ered about  him,  and  nothing  presaged  his  tragic  fate. 
But  Chicago  was  still  young,  and  the  spirit  of 
enterprise  and  money-getting  overshadowed  every- 
thing else.  When  cities  are  being  built  and  vast 
schemes  which  make  for  material  prosperity  are  in 


the  air,  there  is  little  time  and  possibly  less  dispo- 
sition to  wander  in  the  flowery  but  unpaying  paths 
that  lead  towards  a  finer  culture.  There  was  a  lim- 
ited circle,  however,  which  kept  alive  the  love  of 
things  of  the  intellect,  and  it  was  one  of  Emily's  cher- 
ished aims  to  widen  this.  She  formed  classes  among 
her  friends,  laid  out  plans  of  study,  and  roused  social 
interests  of  a  new  sort.  There  were  pleasant  morn- 
ings when  a  group  of  women  met  in  her  pretty  draw- 
ing-room for  French  conversation,  each  one  being 
expected  to  tell  a  story  or  relate  an  experience,  in  a 
language  that  was  far  less  familiar  then  than  now. 
There  were  also  studies  in  the  history  of  different 
periods.  All  this  has  long  since  become  a  thing  of  the 
past  or  assumed  broader  proportions.  At  that  time 
it  was  new  and  the  members  of  the  little  coterie  were 
full  of  the  freshness  and  enthusiasm  of  youth.  Some 
have  since  entered  larger  fields  of  work,  others  have 
grown  sad  and  silent  under  the  touch  of  years  and 
sorrow,  many,  also,  have  gone  where  we  cannot  fol- 
low them,  though  we  may  hope  that  they  have  found 
a  fuller  life  in  an  unknown  sphere.  But  living  traces 
of  these  early  enthusiasms  were  left  behind,  and  rich 
fruit  has  grown  out  of  them. 

Among  other  things  that  Emily  planned  for  her- 
self at  this  period,  was  a  scheme  of  reading  that  was 
to  embrace  the  history  of  the  world.  Grote,  Momm- 
sen,  Merivale,  Rawlinson,  Ranke,  and  a  multitude  of 
minor  authors,  were  included.  How  far  she  succeeded 


in  carrying  out  this  rather  colossal  undertaking  I 
have  now  forgotten,  but  I  well  remember  the  energy 
she  put  into  the  beginning  of  a  course  that  must  ex- 
tend into  years.  She  was  too  social  in  her  nature  for 
a  profound  or  persistent  student,  though  she  always 
religiously  set  apart  certain  hours  for  reading.  She 
loved  life  too  well,  and  she  would  hardly  have  claimed 
to  be  a  serious  or  systematic  thinker.  But  she  liked 
to  glean  from  all  fields  of  knowledge,  and  took  a  keen 
pleasure  in  the  acquisition  of  facts.  Her  real  talent, 
however,  was  for  inspiring  others  with  her  own  en- 
thusiasms. She  wished  to  create  an  atmosphere  in 
which  all  talents  would  grow  and  flourish.  A  definite 
gift  was  always  a  passport  to  her  favor,  and  her  gen- 
erosity was  extended  to  any  one  who  was  struggling 
under  adverse  conditions.  It  was  to  aspiring  talent, 
rather  than  to  sordid  poverty  and  ignorance — though 
she  was  not  unmindful  of  these — that  her  aid  was 
given,  and  many  a  gifted  worker  under  the  blighting 
pressure  of  care  for  the  wherewithal,  has  had  reason 
to  bless  her  for  active  sympathy  and  substantial  en- 
couragement. 


[52] 


VII 

DURING  these  years  Kate  Newell  Doggett  was 
the  centre  and  leading  spirit  of  a  circle  devoted 
to  the  social  and  intellectual  advancement  of  women. 
She  was  herself  a  woman  of  wide  culture  and  broad 
interests,  full  of  energy  and  enthusiasm  to  inspire 
others  with  her  own  aims,  catholic  in  her  sympathies, 
and  a  natural  leader.  Her  intellectual  tastes  were 
varied  and  serious,  including  literature,  philosophy, 
history,  art,  science,  and  an  active  interest  in  all  the 
vital  questions  of  the  hour.  She  could  hardly  claim 
to  have  made  a  profound  study  of  all  these  things, 
but  she  was  well  versed  in  many  subjects.  She  spe- 
cially excelled  as  a  botanist.  I  recall  a  collection  of 
pressed  flowers  that  she  had  brought  back  from  some 
of  her  journey  ings,  in  which  each  one  was  arranged 
and  labeled  with  the  dainty  touch  of  an  artist  who 
had  made  a  life-long  study  of  this  craft.  It  was 
greatly  admired  and  brought  a  substantial  price  at 
the  Sanitary  Fair  near  the  close  of  the  war.  She  also 
classified  and  arranged  a  valuable  collection  of  plants 
that  was  given  to  the  Academy  of  Sciences  by  Doctor 
Scammon — a  work  demanding  not  only  great  knowl- 
edge, but  a  deft  hand.  To  accomplishments  of  this 

[53] 


sort,  she  added  a  distinct  gift  for  languages.  Many 
of  her  friends  have  occasion  to  remember  the  pleas- 
ant mornings  at  her  house  when  a  little  circle  met  to 
study  the  great  French,  German,  and  Italian  classics. 
There  we  read  Racine,  Moliere,  Corneille,  Victor 
Hugo,  Alfred  de  Musset,  and  other  authors  less 
known.  In  the  evenings  we  had  little  plays,  some- 
times French,  sometimes  German,  or  Italian,  or  Span- 
ish. The  air  was  alive  with  zeal  for  mastering  foreign 
languages  and  unlocking  their  sealed  treasures. 

Prominent  in  this  small  group  of  amateur  actors 
was  Ellen  Martin,  so  widely  known  later  in  the  phil- 
anthropic work  of  the  city  as  Mrs.  Charles  Henrotin. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw  her,  as  she 
came  in  one  morning  with  her  clever  sister,  fresh 
from  a  seven  years'  residence  in  foreign  lands  and  the 
training  of  French  schools.  She  was  a  vision  of  blue 
and  white  that  summer  day,  with  the  care-free  face 
of  youth,  graceful  manners,  and  a  sunny  smile  that 
held  small  prophecy  of  the  serious  interests  and  ardu- 
ous labors  of  her  mature  years. 

There  were  other  evenings  when  we  were  asked  to 
meet  various  celebrities  or  interesting  people,  and  the 
conversation  ran  over  a  wide  range  of  topics.  There 
was  gaiety  also,  and  dancing  or  music  served  as  a 
spice  for  the  more  serious  side  of  the  entertainment. 
Previous  to  this  time,  dancing  had  been  the  universal 
amusement  and  the  main  resource  in  all  social  affairs. 
Mrs.  Doggett  was  not  averse  to  dancing,  and  danced 

[54] 


herself  with  a  good  deal  of  the  energy  which  she  put 
into  everything  she  did,  but  she  realized  that  the  true 
spirit  of  social  life  lies  in  the  head,  not  in  the  feet, 
and  that  dancing  is  only  one  of  many  modes  of  ex- 
pression. So,  wherever  it  was  possible,  she  struck  a 
high  note  in  conversation,  and  her  dark  eyes  sparkled 
with  enthusiasm  when  she  met  a  sympathetic  re- 
sponse. It  did  not  suffice  that  she  loved  high  themes 
herself.  She  was  eminently  social  and  the  thing  near- 
est her  heart  in  those  days,  I  think,  was  to  enlarge 
the  scope  of  social  life  and  put  it  on  a  finer  basis. 
There  were  other  women  here  of  talent  and  accom- 
plishments, but  they  were  in  a  degree  individual  and 
apart,  except  as  they  found  a  sympathetic  atmos- 
phere in  small  circles  without  unity  of  aim  or  any 
special  cohesive  quality.  In  a  few  houses,  one  was 
sure  to  meet  men  and  women  of  taste,  exceptional 
intelligence,  and  often  of  distinction.  There  were 
charming  evenings  at  the  McCaggs',  the  Brainards', 
the  Ogdens',  with  the  best  of  talk,  good  music,  and 
the  refined  simplicity  that  is  growing  rare  today. 
The  tone  of  these  coteries  was  distinctly  intellectual, 
but  their  influence  was  passive  rather  than  active,  as 
they  dealt  with  present,  not  with  possible  or  pros- 
pective results.  I  heard  Mrs.  Brainard,  who  was  de- 
voted to  things  of  the  intellect,  say  that  she  was  on 
the  alert  for  every  form  of  talent,  but  was  often  dis- 
appointed to  find  that  it  was  not  always  socially 
available.  Still,  all  this  counted  in  the  great  current 

[55] 


that  led  to  wider  diffusion  of  an  interest  in  the  best 
things. 

But  it  was  Mrs.  Doggett  who  first  concentrated 
the  intellectual  life  of  the  women  of  Chicago  and 
made  it  an  active  force  on  social  lines;  and  we  all 
know  today  what  that  means  to  the  standards  of 
culture.  The  dancing  world  was  disposed  to  look 
askance  at  her  innovations.  The  amusement  lovers 
were  glad  to  go  to  her  house  when  asked,  but  they 
shook  their  heads  at  the  advent  of  "blue-stocking 
parties,"  voted  them  dull,  and  declared  them  too  mis- 
cellaneous when  they  included  superior  people  whom 
they  did  not  know.  At  this  time,  which  was  in  the 
late  'sixties,  she  had  the  salon  idea  as  developed  more 
than  two  hundred  years  earlier  by  Madame  de  Ram- 
bouillet,  who  had  gathered  about  her  men  and  women 
of  every  form  of  talent  and  distinction,  practically 
creating  a  new  society  on  intellectual  lines,  which 
eclipsed  the  court  and  left  lasting  traces  on  the  life 
of  the  time. 

Among  those  who  entered  most  actively  into  all 
these  aims  and  amusements  was  Emily  MacVeagh. 
She  had  quickly  identified  herself  with  the  older  wo- 
man's interests,  and  gave  her  substantial  assistance. 
She  was  less  emancipated  in  her  opinions  and  less 
decided  on  the  questions  then  beginning  to  be  much 
discussed  regarding  the  political  status  of  women. 
Perhaps  she  was  not  of  the  stuff  out  of  which  reform- 
ers are  made,  and  radical  she  certainly  never  was, 

[56] 


but  she  entered  heart  and  soul  into  every  scheme 
that  was  likely  to  add  to  the  social  and  intellectual 
culture  of  her  sex.  But  the  situation  had  its  diffi- 
culties. In  a  young  civilization  men  are  apt  to  look 
askance  at  movements  that  add  little  to  the  sum  of 
available  utilities.  A  man  may  go  to  hear  a  play 
given  by  his  amateur  friends  in  a  foreign  language, 
if  it  be  sufficiently  amusing  and  not  too  long,  but  it 
is  too  much  to  expect  a  modern  man  of  affairs  to 
give  either  mornings  or  evenings  to  the  reading  of  the 
classics  in  any  language.  Mrs.  Doggett  was  suffi- 
ciently of  her  time  to  see  that  the  conditions  of  two 
hundred  or  two  thousand  years  ago  had  ceased  to 
exist  and  that  old  forms  could  not  be  repeated.  We 
had  no  leisure  class,  men  were  largely  absorbed  in 
business  or  professions,  and  those  who  cared  to  meet 
on  an  intellectual  ground  were  not  too  numerous. 
It  was  necessary  to  create  a  wider  interest  in  the 
intellectual  side  of  things,  and  this  work  was  clearly 
to  fall  upon  women  if  done  at  all,  with  the  aid  of  a 
few  men  of  special  tastes  and  talent  in  that  direction. 


[571 


VIII 

IT  WAS  under  these  conditions  that  The  Fortnightly 
was  organized.  The  plan  of  a  society  devoted  to 
the  social  and  literary  interests  of  women  was  first 
broached  at  a  luncheon  given  by  Mrs.  Doggett  to 
twelve  friends  who  were  more  or  less  in  sympathy 
with  her  aims.  Some  were  enthusiastic,  some  were 
timid,  but  a  nucleus  was  formed  and  the  idea  became 
at  once  an  assured  fact.  This  was  in  the  summer  of 
1873.  Not  long  before,  the  Sorosis  had  been  estab- 
lished in  New  York  and  the  Woman's  Club  in  Bos- 
ton, but  these  were  on  slightly  different  lines.  The 
Fortnightly  was  among  the  first  of  the  societies  that 
are  numbered  today  by  thousands,  and  are  the  most 
potent  of  the  factors  making  for  the  larger  influence 
of  women. 

Of  this  society,  Emily  was  one  of  the  founders 
and  most  active  supporters,  giving  lavishly  of  her 
time  and  strength  to  make  it  what  it  is  today,  one 
of  the  most  dignified  and  influential  in  the  country. 
From  time  to  time  she  served  it  in  every  official  ca- 
pacity, and  she  was  a  very  efficient  president  for  two 
terms.  Her  strong  executive  qualities  gave  her  a 
voice  in  all  its  councils.  She  called  to  her  aid  the  best 

[58] 


available  talent,  whether  literary  or  executive,  and 
never  hesitated  to  be  positive  where  its  interests  were 
concerned.  If  she  differed  at  any  time  from  others 
about  these  interests  it  was  an  honest  difference,  and 
she  pursued  the  path  which  she  thought  the  best  with 
a  persistence  that  rarely  failed  of  attaining  its  end. 
For  this  she  was  ready  to  make  many  sacrifices  and 
the  results  usually  justified  her.  How  deeply  she  had 
the  permanent  welfare  of  the  Fortnightly  at  heart  is 
clearly  shown  in  her  bequest  of  a  trust  fund  of  twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars,  the  income  of  which  is  to  be 
spent  for  lectures  before  the  society  by  eminent  non- 
residents—  this  trust  fund  to  be  known  as  the  "Emily 
Eames  MacVeagh  Lectureship." 

One  has  only  to  glance  at  the  personnelle  of  the 
Fortnightly  in  its  infancy  to  see  that  it  was  intended 
to  be  cosmopolitan.  There  were  many  kinds  of  talent 
which  contributed  to  its  success.  Some  of  its  founders 
were  scholarly,  some  were  literary,  some  were  strong 
in  administration,  some  in  executive  ability;  others 
represented  life  mainly  on  its  social  and  appreciative 
side.  Though  it  was  a  literary  society  the  qualifica- 
tions for  membership  were  not  exclusively  literary  or 
scholarly.  Mrs.  Doggett  had  the  insight  to  under- 
stand that  this  would  limit  its  influence,  as  such  a 
society  would  be  likely  to  fail  in  variety  and  cohesive 
quality.  Besides  the  material  was  lacking.  Her 
tastes  too,  were  aesthetic  as  well  as  serious,  and  she 
liked  to  foster  the  touch  of  grace  given  to  life  by  due 

[59] 


attention  to  its  forms  and  amenities,  the  "just  enough 
and  not  too  much"  which  adds  beauty  to  the  solid 
temple  without  weakening  it.  With  the  end  she  had 
in  view,  she  showed  great  wisdom  and  avoided  much 
antagonism,  in  trying  to  preserve  a  certain  balance 
between  the  more  studious  element  and  a  social  ele- 
ment that  must  be  intelligent  and  appreciative  of  the 
best  things,  though  it  might  be  neither  actively  liter- 
ary nor  profound. 

I  had  left  Chicago  after  my  marriage  six  months 
earlier,  and  it  was  several  years  before  I  saw  it  again. 
But  I  remember  well  the  vision  of  the  far-reaching 
influence  of  such  an  association  that  came  to  me  on 
reading  Emily's  letter  containing  the  details  of  its 
organization,  which  found  me  among  the  historic  hills 
of  Bohemia — a  vision  which  I  am  glad  to  say  has 
been  fully  realized. 

Among  the  most  prominent  of  the  founders  was 
Ellen  Mitchell,  whose  memory  is  tenderly  cherished 
by  all  who  knew  her.  She  was  a  woman  of  wide  in- 
telligence, scholarly  tastes,  fine  ideals,  and  a  bound- 
less energy  born  of  the  bracing  air  of  the  sea-girt  and 
wind-swept  island  of  Nan  tucket  where  her  youth  was 
spent,  and  where  she  sleeps  today  within  the  sound 
of  the  tossing  waves.  I  have  in  my  mind  a  very  clear 
picture  of  Mrs.  Mitchell's  face  as  it  appeared  to  me 
the  first  time  I  saw  her  at  one  of  Emily's  French 
mornings.  The  strongest  impression  left  by  its  grave, 
firm  outlines,  was  one  of  great  intellectual  and  moral 

[60] 


earnestness,  and  this,  I  think,  was  the  keynote  to 
her  character.  The  traditional  New  England  con- 
science showed  itself  in  an  unswerving  faithfulness 
and  devotion  to  her  convictions,  and  to  her  ideals, 
which  were  of  the  highest.  She  had  a  generous  ampli- 
tude of  mind  and  heart  which  found  no  place  for 
pettiness  or  pretension.  Tall  and  slender,  with  fair 
hair,  blue  eyes,  simple,  unaffected  manners,  and  an 
attaching  personality,  she  was  the  type  of  a  Puritan 
woman  softened  and  broadened  by  contact  with  the 
world,  but  always  stamped  with  truth  and  sincerity. 
Her  literary  enthusiasms  were  strong,  and  she  had 
the  live  touch  of  imagination  which  inclined  her  to 
idealize  the  gifted  ones  whom  she  loved  and  admired. 
She  served  the  society  ably  in  many  capacities  and 
was  its  third  president.  Whether  she  presided  or 
wrote  scholarly  papers,  counseled  or  worked  in  other 
ways,  she  was  always  an  active  force  and  her  influ- 
ence was  distinct  and  permanent. 

Mary  H.  Loomis,  the  second  president,  was  a 
valuable  executive  officer,  wise  in  council,  calm,  dig- 
nified, discriminating,  conservative,  and  disposed  al- 
ways to  keep  within  traditional  feminine  lines. 

Emily  MacVeagh  added  a  keen  appreciation  of 
intellectual  things,  an  untiring  energy,  fresh  enthu- 
siasms, a  passionate  love  of  life  on  its  social  and  aes- 
thetic side,  and  a  magnetic  personality,  to  a  rare 
ability  for  working  towards  practical  ends.  There 
was  a  variety  of  talent  and  each  one  gave  what  she 


could.  One  was  ready  of  mind,  fluent  of  speech, 
eager  for  all  knowledge,  with  a  warm  heart  that  en- 
tered spontaneously  into  every  good  object  whether 
literary  or  philanthropic.  One  was  quiet,  studious, 
always  ready  with  her  considered  thought  and  de- 
voted to  fine  ideals;  one  was  fresh  from  years  of  study 
and  foreign  travel  which  were  not  then  an  everyday 
affair;  one  was  amiable  and  conciliatory,  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  youth  and  a  vision  of  many  forms  of 
culture;  one  united  fine  aesthetic  ideals  and  a  versa- 
tile intellect  with  a  large  love  of  humanity;  one  was 
graceful  and  radiant,  with  hopeful  eyes,  seeing  much 
and  wishing  to  know  more.  One  who  combined  a 
love  of  the  best  literature  with  a  generous  activity 
in  all  good  things,  spoke  well  and  wrote  well,  was 
president  three  terms,  and  held  most  of  the  impor- 
tant offices  in  the  gift  of  the  society,  was  Mary  H. 
Wilmarth,  who  still  lives  to  bless  the  world  with  her 
gracious  and  smiling  presence. 

Some  loved  books  for  their  own  sakes,  others 
loved  life  with  a  seasoning  of  books.  But  grave  or 
gay,  social  or  scholarly,  worldly  or  unworldly,  all 
were  animated  with  the  same  purpose.  Together 
these  women  formed  a  strong  and  efficient  body  that 
worked  long  and  well  in  the  interest  of  the  Fort- 
nightly, which  was  very  near  to  their  hearts,  and 
they  deserve  to  be  held  in  grateful  remembrance. 

It  was  Mrs.  Doggett's  pleasant  mission  to  fuse 
these  elements  and  get  from  each  the  best  she  had 

[62] 


to  contribute.  Forceful,  intelligent,  with  a  keen  ob- 
servation, acute  sensibilities,  a  strong  will,  and  rare 
versatility,  she  had  a  great  deal  of  the  Gallic  social 
spirit  and  a  distinct  talent  for  leadership  which 
brought  into  service  all  her  other  gifts.  She  was  not 
beautiful,  but  she  had  a  dominant  personality.  Her 
features  were  sharply  outlined,  her  sable  hair  fell  in 
curls  at  the  side  of  her  face,  and  her  dark,  penetrat- 
ing eyes  were  more  apt  to  flash  with  spirit,  or  intel- 
lectuality, than  to  melt  with  tenderness.  A  strong 
will  was  stamped  on  every  line  of  her  expressive  face. 
But  she  was  kind  and  generous,  especially  to  strug- 
gling talent,  and  always  ready  to  give  both  time  and 
strength  to  the  eager  student  who  was  handicapped 
in  the  battle  of  life. 

In  its  first  years  the  Fortnightly  was  practically 
devoted  to  enlarging  the  mental  horizon  as  well  as 
the  knowledge  of  women,  who  were  not,  as  a  rule, 
so  well  equipped  in  the  essentials  of  a  university 
education  as  their  sisters  of  today;  though  I  may  be 
accused  of  heresy  when  I  say  that  whatever  they  may 
have  lacked  in  exact  training  was  largely  offset  by 
singleness  of  aim  and  seriousness  of  thought.  There 
were  fewer,  too,  who  assumed  to  know  and  judge  on 
a  very  slender  basis.  So  long  as  learning  was  not  in 
fashion  there  was  little  motive  for  affecting  it.  When 
it  did  become  the  fashion  there  was  a  strong  tempta- 
tion to  pretend  to  a  great  deal  that  did  not  exist. 
Human  nature  has  not  greatly  changed  since  Ovid 

[63] 


said  that  a  few  women  of  his  own  time  were  learned 
and  a  great  many  wished  to  be  thought  so.  But 
genuine  knowledge  has  always  its  modest  reserves. 

However,  the  society  grew  and  flourished.  In  a 
letter  of  February,  1883,  Emily  writes  of  it: 

"We  are  in  new  quarters.  I  was  put  upon  the  fur- 
nishing committee  and  had  both  building  and  fur- 
nishing to  look  after,  pretty  nearly  by  myself,  as  the 
rooms  were  built  for  us  in  the  new  Art  Institute. 
There  were  three  on  the  committee,  but  the  other 
two  were  absent  until  the  work  was  three-quarters 
done.  We  solicited  money  from  the  members.  I 
wrote  over  a  hundred  letters  myself,  from  twelve  to 
fourteen  pages  long,  explaining  our  scheme,  and  we 
raised  in  this  way  nearly  thirteen  hundred  dollars  in 
contributions  ranging  from  five  to  a  hundred  dollars 
each.  This  has  kept  me  very  busy.  The  board  ap- 
propriated one  thousand  dollars  for  furnishing,  and 
you  can  imagine  we  have  very  pleasant  rooms,  though 
they  are  not  yet  completed.  The  membership  is  to 
be  limited  now." 

The  Art  Institute  referred  to  here  was  the  build- 
ing in  use  previous  to  the  completion  of  the  present 
one.  It  is  now  occupied  by  the  Chicago  Club. 

In  August,  1884,  she  writes  from  Maplewood, 
New  Hampshire: 

"I  find  it  just  about  a  month  since  your  welcome 
letter  was  received.  It  came  with  the  Democratic 
convention,  and  guests,  and  hosts  of  friends  from 

[64] 


everywhere.  We  enjoyed  that  week  exceedingly.  Di- 
rectly afterwards  we  came  East  and  after  a  few  days 
at  the  Brunswick  in  New  York  we  came  here.  I 
thought  seriously  of  trying  the  Adirondacks  after 
your  letter,  but  Dr.  Johnson  thought  that  Frank  had 
better  on  the  whole  come  back  here  where  he  could 
have  greater  facilities  for  riding  and  driving.  We 
have  found  some  old  friends  and  made  some  charm- 
ing acquaintances,  so  are  contented  and  satisfied. 
.  .  .  The  Bonapartes  from  Baltimore  are  here,  and 
our  friends,  Colonel  and  Mrs.  John  Hay  of  Cleve- 
land, and  others  from  Philadelphia  and  Boston. 

"I  had  letters  forwarded  from  home  last  week  con- 
taining letters  of  introduction  brought  by  Professor 
Jebb  of  Oxford,  who  has  been  in  Chicago.  We  were 
very  sorry  to  miss  him.  He  is  said  to  be  very  enter- 
taining and  altogether  interesting.  I  think  his  Attic 
Orators  delightful. 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  left  Lake  Placid.  When  do 
you  expect  to  be  in  Chicago  again?  as  early  as 
October  loth?  I  believe  that  is  the  date  of  the  first 
Fortnightly  meeting,  but  I  am  relying  on  my  mem- 
ory entirely.  If  you  are  there  I  hope  you  will  talk  a 
little  about  the  Art  of  the  Moors.  I  have  promised 
to  look  after  the  art  interests  this  year  and  I  am 
looking  to  you  for  substantial  aid  on  all  the  Art 
afternoons.  Chicago  is  charming  in  October.  It  is 
so  long  since  you  have  been  there  at  that  time  that 
I  fear  you  may  forget  that  it  is  our  best  month. 


"Did  you  know  that  the  Decorative  Art  Society  is 
to  renew  its  monthly  meetings?  You  will  be  needed 
there,  too.  I  hope  you  are  doing  well  this  summer. 
Do  you  feel  any  better  or  stronger,  and  have  you 
begun  any  half-hours  of  writing  yet?  I  wish  you 
were  as  strong  as  I  am,  yet  I  have  not  the  strength 
I  once  had,  though  enough  I  am  sure  to  more  than 
satisfy  you.  I  am  reading  several  hours  a  day.  I 
brought  one  trunk  full  of  books  and  I  hope  to  do 
some  good  work  in  this  way  before  my  return  home. " 
The  Decorative  Art  Society  was  one  of  her  special 
interests  from  the  beginning.  She  was  among  its 
founders  and  active  supporters,  also  one  of  its  presi- 
dents, and  she  refers  to  it  often  in  her  letters  then, 
and  later,  after  it  was  merged  in  the  Antiquarians 
with  different  aims.  Its  work  was  in  the  line  of  her 
tastes,  which  were  always  aesthetic.  It  contributed 
greatly  to  the  growth  of  the  art  spirit  in  the  details 
of  life,  also  to  the  collection  and  preservation  of  rare 
and  artistic  things. 

Her  strongest  impulse  in  this  direction  had  come 
to  her  through  the  Centennial  Exposition  of  1876, 
which  changed  the  artistic  ideals  of  the  entire  coun- 
try. It  was  an  education  and  a  revelation.  Emily 
spent  six  weeks  in  Philadelphia  making  herself  fam- 
iliar with  the  mysteries  of  form  and  color  as  well  as 
with  the  great  works  which  had  grown  out  of  an 
artistic  past.  She  talked  with  artists  of  world-wide 
fame  and  gathered  materials  for  future  use  in  the 

[66] 


building,  furnishing,  and  decorating  of  her  various 
houses.  All  this  fostered  the  instinctive  taste  which 
always  guided  her  modes  of  living. 


IX 

"Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all. 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall." 

THE  great  sorrow  of  Emily  MacVeagh's  life  came 
to  her  in  the  spring  of  1882,  in  the  loss  of  her 
little  daughter  Edith,  a  child  of  rare  qualities  of 
character  and  of  mature  intellect,  with  judgment  far 
beyond  her  eight  years.  It  took  the  light  from  her 
home  and,  for  a  long  time,  the  motive  from  her  life. 
Coming  like  a  thunderbolt  out  of  a  singularly  clear 
sky,  it  left  father  and  mother  alike  shrouded  in  dark- 
ness. Three  other  children  had  already  been  taken 
almost  before  they  began  to  live.  But  this  one  had 
survived  to  twine  herself  about  their  hearts  and  be- 
come a  vital  part  of  their  lives.  Their  cherished  plans 
interested  them  no  more,  and  the  hopelessness  of  a 
great  grief  fell  upon  them  like  a  black  pall. 

During  the  first  stunned  months  society  was  out 
of  the  question  and  even  reading  was  impossible. 
After  a  brief  trip  to  California  in  the  vain  search  for 
distractions  which  did  not  distract,  Emily's  charac- 
teristic courage  and  resolution  came  to  her  aid.  She 
could  not  command  her  thoughts,  but  she  could  force 

[681 


herself  to  mechanical  work.  In  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  finding  a  vent  for  her  energies  and  relief  from 
incurable  grief,  she  set  herself  to  learn  wood-carving. 
For  months  she  gave  her  time  to  this  new  occupa- 
tion, as  many  women  take  up  sewing  under  like  con- 
ditions, finding,  possibly,  in  the  unfinished  thing  of 
today  a  much-needed  motive  to  live  until  tomorrow. 
Among  other  things  that  she  carved  was  the  table 
she  gave  to  the  Fortnightly,  which  has  stood  ever 
since  on  the  platform  in  its  rooms.  This  mode  of 
occupying  herself  was  dropped  when  her  life  became 
more  or  less  adjusted  to  its  altered  conditions,  but  it 
had  served  its  purpose  in  making  possible  these  hours 
of  voiceless  pain. 

It  was  only  the  day  before  Edith  was  taken  ill 
that  her  mother  came  to  me  with  a  paper  on  Dante 
which  she  had  written  for  the  Fortnightly  and  which 
was  read  by  a  friend  at  the  appointed  time.  It 
brought  up  many  questions  relating  to  the  ecclesias- 
tical spirit  of  the  age.  Religious  matters  troubled 
Emily  little  then,  except  as  speculations.  The  next 
time  she  came,  a  few  weeks  later,  it  was  on  her  way 
to  a  Lenten  communion  service,  in  a  passionate  seek- 
ing for  the  consolation  religion  might  offer.  She  had 
found,  as  many  do  in  seasons  of  crushing  grief,  that 
an  impenetrable  veil  had  fallen  before  that  other  life 
in  which  the  sad  problems  of  this  are  to  be  solved. 
What  she  thought  she  believed,  seemed  a  shadow 
rather  than  a  certainty.  In  vain  she  sought  the  re- 


pose  of  an  unclouded  faith.  It  was  not  there  and 
refused  to  come  at  her  bidding.  Her  family  were 
Presbyterians,  but  after  her  marriage  she  allied  her- 
self with  the  Episcopalians  and  went  with  her  hus- 
band to  St.  James's  Church.  Its  service  was  more 
in  harmony  with  her  tastes  and  her  natural  love  for 
forms  and  ceremonials.  These  gave  her  a  certain 
consolation,  appealing  as  they  do  to  the  bruised 
heart,  but  I  do  not  think  she  ever  had  an  unques- 
tioning belief  in  religious  dogmas,  and  at  this  time 
she  felt  the  foundations  of  hope  slipping  from  her. 
The  search  for  light  was  pathetic  and  prolonged,  but 
if  her  reason  was  never  wholly  satisfied  with  any 
creed,  her  buoyant  temperament  came  to  her  aid. 
What  she  could  not  know  she  hoped,  and  hope  is 
often  an  illumination  when  faith  wanders  in  a  mist. 
How  she  settled  these  things  in  later  years  I  am  not 
sure,  as  the  subject  rarely  came  up  between  us  after 
these  days  of  sharp  grief;  but  she  was  not  intro- 
spective, and  her  outward  glance  was  always  towards 
the  light. 

A  son,  Eames,  was  still  left  to  her,  a  delicate  child 
who  grew  to  a  comparatively  vigorous  manhood  and 
repaid  the  care  and  affection  that  were  so  lavishly 
given  him,  with  an  unfailing  love  and  devotion  to  the 
mother  who  had  centred  all  her  hopes  in  him.  But 
the  four  that  were  gone  left  a  vacancy  that  could 
never  be  filled,  and  she  was  forced  to  occupy  her  sad- 
dened days  with  other  interests. 

[70]     • 


some  time  Emily  had  been  considering  plans 
for  a  new  and  larger  house  on  the  North  Side,  but 
these  were  dropped  after  Edith  was  gone.  Neither 
father  nor  mother  had  the  heart  to  design  another 
home  which  could  never  be  graced  by  this  idolized 
daughter.  It  was  one  of  the  moments  when  the  ma- 
chinery of  life  seems  to  stop  and  nothing  more  is 
worth  while.  But,  after  all,  the  world  moves  on,  and 
its  duties  as  well  as  its  burdens  have  to  be  taken  up 
and  carried  to  the  end.  There  are  others  to  be 
thought  of. 

In  a  few  years  these  plans  were  again  considered 
and  the  building  and  furnishing  of  the  well-known 
house  on  Lake  Shore  Drive  absorbed  Emily's  time 
and  thought  for  a  long  period.  The  wound  was  al- 
ways there,  for  something  vital  had  gone  out  of  her 
life,  but  the  need  of  expressing  herself  was  still  strong, 
and  she  brought  much  of  her  old  enthusiasm  to  the 
work.  She  discussed  all  the  details  with  H.  H.  Rich- 
ardson, the  architect  who  designed  the  house,  attend- 
ing herself  to  the  minutest  points,  entering  into 
questions  of  cost  with  the  grasp  of  an  experienced 
man  of  affairs,  often  overseeing  even  the  workmen, 

[71] 


that  nothing  might  be  slighted  or  go  wrong.  A  letter 
of  January,  1886,  from  Thomasville,  Georgia,  gives 
a  glimpse  of  what  she  was  doing  and  thinking  about 
at  intervals  while  the  work  was  in  progress: 

"My  dear  friend:  Your  note  came  just  as  we  were 
leaving  for  the  South  and  as  I  only  decided  to  come 
with  Frank  the  day  before  we  left,  I  was  overcrowded 
with  things  to  do,  since  the  household  matters  had  to 
be  arranged  for  until  we  move  into  our  new  home. 
Doctor  Ludlam  takes  possession  of  our  present  house 
January  fifteenth,  so  I  had  to  plan  everything  for 
Lina  to  carry  out. 

"I  sent  your  books  to  the  office  addressed  to  you, 
but  without  a  word  of  thanks,  which  please  receive 
now  as  I  am  really  indebted  for  their  use  and  your 
kind  information. 

"Frank  didn't  grow  any  better,  was  taking  more 
cold  constantly,  and  we  suddenly  decided  to  wait  no 
longer.  He  is  improving  rapidly  now,  walking  about 
town  and  sitting  on  the  piazzas  or  in  the  woods  with- 
out any  top-coat,  the  thermometer  standing  at  74 
degrees — entirely  too  warm  for  my  comfort.  We 
hope  to  be  back  in  Chicago  by  February  fifteenth. 
I  shall  not  go  to  Europe  till  the  late  spring  I  think, 
so  I  am  hoping  now  to  hear  your  paper  at  the  Fort- 
nightly. 

"Tell  me  all  that  occurs  of  any  interest  in  any  of 
our  clubs  or  elsewhere  before  you  leave.  If  you 
should  be  in  Chicago  the  fourth  Tuesday  in  January, 

[72] 


: 


please  help  Mrs.  Dexter  in  the  discussion  on  Dress 
at  the  Decorative  Art  meeting.  I  had  promised  to. 
I  don't  know  when  the  special  meeting  of  the  Fort- 
nightly is  to  be  held.  Nothing  was  to  be  decided  till 
this  week." 

She  carried  the  affairs  of  the  various  societies  al- 
ways on  her  mind.  Now  it  was  the  course  of  study 
in  the  Fortnightly,  which  at  this  time  was  limited  to 
the  sixteenth  century,  now  it  was  the  election  of  Mrs. 
Jewett,  the  efficient  president  of  the  Decorative  Art 
Society,  or  some  important  topic  of  discussion.  Again 
it  was  the  Browning  class  which  met  at  Mrs.  Mitch- 
ell's to  read  and  discuss  the  poet,  especially  on  his 
ethical  side.  It  is  not  the  subjects  on  which  she 
dwells,  but  the  best  arrangements  for  presenting 
them,  and  the  changes  that  make  for  the  interests  of 
the  societies.  She  has  all  the  details  in  hand  and  calls 
to  her  aid  those  who  are  best  versed  in  the  affairs  of 
any  special  department.  She  speaks  too,  of  the  de- 
lays in  her  house,  and  touches  upon  various  personal 
matters. 

In  1887  she  writes  just  after  Christmas  from  the 
hotel,  where  she  was  awaiting  the  tardy  completion 
of  her  own  house: 

11  Your  charming  remembrance  was  my  first  Christ- 
mas greeting  and  I  hasten  to  tell  you  how  very  greatly 
I  appreciate  your  sweet  thought  of  me.  I  feel  sure 
many  a  kind  wish  was  wrought  into  your  exquisite 
handiwork.  The  St.  Cecelia  delights  me.  The  face 

[73]' 


teems  with  religion  and  poetry.  How  superbly  your 
sister  has  translated  it!  Won't  you  give  me  her  ad- 
dress that  I  may  write  and  tell  her  how  divinely  it 
speaks  to  me?  I  have  already  a  place  for  it  in  the 
library  of  our  dear  home  if  it  is  ever  made  ready  for 
us.  The  time  seems  so  hopelessly  far  off. 

"I  can't  attempt  to  tell,  except  orally,  of  our  de- 
lightful trip  abroad.  Athens  was  to  us  all  the  best 
of  everything,  though  we  were  not  there  quite  three 
weeks. 

"  But,  of  you — why  are  you  such  a  bird  of  passage  ? 
Don't  you  consider  Chicago  your  home  any  longer? 
Do  establish  yourself  here  and  cease  your  flitting 
ways.  The  Fortnightly  misses  you.  Do  some  of  your 
serious  thinking  on  this  subject." 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1888  that  the  finishing 
touches  were  put  upon  the  new  house  and  the  family 
moved  into  it.  For  a  long  time  Emily  had  been  ab- 
sorbed in  the  details  of  furnishing  and  in  collecting 
rare  and  beautiful  things  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
In  this  pleasant  occupation  she  was  quite  at  home 
and  she  never  considered  it  ended.  There  was  always 
something  new  to  be  placed,  some  corner  to  be  filled. 
But  there  was  no  suggestion  of  a  museum  in  the 
result.  Everything  fitted  into  its  surroundings  and 
made  a  part  of  the  general  harmony.  The  subtle  at- 
mosphere of  a  refined  home  lent  a  charm  to  the  taste- 
ful but  never  crowded  rooms.  Whether  it  was  the 
carved  screen  window  from  an  old  mosque  at  Ahmed- 

[74] 


abad,  with  its  quaint  design  and  its  exquisite  tracery; 
the  finely  shaded  rugs  from  Persian  looms;  the  pre- 
cious French  tapestries;  the  beautiful  Salviati  glass  in 
tints  of  ruby,  smoke,  and  gold;  the  Romanesque  pil- 
lars of  African  marble  from  the  Nile  quarries,  which 
framed  the  tropical  luxuriance  of  the  tall  palms 
beyond;  the  wonderful  old  ivory  carvings  from  India 
and  Japan;  the  altar  decorations  of  rare  and  delicate 
Persian  lace,  or  the  interesting  collection  of  jade  and 
crystal — everything  had  its  significance  and  its  nat- 
ural place.  The  centre  of  the  family  life  was  the 
spacious  library  with  its  well-filled  shelves  of  books 
carefully  chosen— but  not  for  their  bindings — and 
carefully  read.  The  room  was  hung  with  French 
tapestries  and  portieres^  the  large  fireplace  gave  it  a 
cosy  air,  and  scattered  about  were  Arabian,  Pom- 
peian,  and  Japanese  lamps,  old  bronzes,  Tanagra 
figurines,  statuettes,  and  various  other  things  of 
more  than  commercial  value  but  never  out  of  pro- 
portion with  their  setting. 

In  these  artistic  surroundings  Emily  expressed  her 
dominant  passion,  her  love  of  beautiful  things  con- 
secrated by  the  sentiment  and  taste  of  an  immemor- 
ial past.  Her  love  of  a  refined  and  cultured  social  life 
also  found  expression  here.  Scholars  of  distinction, 
authors,  artists,  world-famed  musicians,  statesmen, 
and  noted  men  of  affairs  met  here  the  versatile  and 
clever  women  of  a  gayer  world,  as  well  as  those  of 
special  gifts  and  attainments  in  simpler  garb.  Among 

[75] 


the  well-known  people  who  gave  distinction  to  these 
interesting  rooms  were  Charles  Eliot  Norton  of  Har- 
vard, Prince  Wolkonsky  and  Princess  Schahovskoy 
of  Russia,  Doctor  Lumholtz,  the  noted  scientist  and 
traveler,  Coquelin,  Henry  Irving,  Henry  James,  the 
De  Reszkes,  Alice  Meynell,  Harriet  Hosmer,  Emma 
Eames,  Henry  M.  Stanley  and  his  accomplished  wife, 
John  Morley,  Mrs.  Craigie,  Ambassador  and  Mrs. 
James  Bryce,  and  in  turn,  most  of  the  foreign  as  well 
as  native  celebrities  who  came  here  with  suitable 
introductions.  Calve  sang  and  danced  in  the  beau- 
tiful music-room,  which  was  decorated  after  one  of 
the  rooms  at  Fontainebleau,  and  many  guests  have 
gone  from  the  clever  talk  of  the  dinner  table  to  listen 
for  a  brief  hour  to  some  famous  artist  who  inter- 
preted the  subtle  dreams  of  Chopin,  the  profound 
harmonies  of  Beethoven,  or  the  complexities  of  some 
later  master. 

In  August,  1889,  Emily  writes  me  from  Inter- 
laken,  to  Baden-Baden,  where  I  was  passing  the  sum- 
mer: 

"Well,  well,  so  you  are  really  here.  Your  welcome 
letter  following  us  to  three  different  places  has  just 
overtaken  us.  It  is  delightful  to  feel  that  you  are  so 
near,  though  we  are  not  likely  to  meet  unless  in 
Paris.  When  did  you  come,  by  what  ship,  and  when 
shall  you  return?  Do  write  me  all  about  it.  I  hope 
Baden-Baden  will  set  you  on  your  feet.  I  was  in 
Aix-les-Bains  for  a  week  and  over.  Mrs.  John  Sher- 

[76] 


wood  was  there  and  so  attentive  that  I  was  glad  to 
get  away  and  join  Frank  and  Eames  at  Vevey,  where 
they  were  en  route  to  join  me  in  Aix-les-Bains.  Mrs. 
Sherwood,  I  mean,  introduced  me  to  so  many  and 
had  me  so  much  invited  and  entertained  at  dinners, 
receptions,  picnics,  etc.,  that  I  found  myself  wearing 
out  under  it  all,  as  I  had  been  half  ill  for  a  fortnight. 
I  shall  have  a  lot  to  tell  you  about  my  experience  in 
Aix-les-Bains,  when  we  meet,  also  of  our  visit  in  Lon- 
don, where  we  had  a  charming  three  weeks.  My  cous- 
in, Sir  Digby  Murray,  gave  us  a  dinner,  and  Lord 
Coleridge,  a  luncheon.  The  Lincolns  did  several 
things — among  them  a  delightful  dinner  party.  We 
were  at  the  Edmund  Gosses'  at  a  reception,  also  at 
the  Alma  Tademas',  meeting  many  distinguished 
people  at  all  these  places,  and  enjoying  it  all  very 
much.  The  theatres  were  interesting,  too,  and,  in 
spite  of  all  our  gaiety,  we  had  some  delightful  hours 
at  the  picture  galleries  and  the  great  museums.  I 
found  some  fine  old  things  for  the  house,  too,  in 
England.  We  bought  two  beautiful  pictures,  one  a 
coast  scene  in  oil  by  J.  M.  W.  Turner — wasn't  that 
a  find? 

"I  have  no  special  news  from  home  except  Miss 
Whitehouse's  engagement  to  Ned  Sheldon.  I  suppose 
they  are  already  married.  ...  I  am  going  to  Paris 
early  next  week.  My  address  there  will  be  20  Rue 
d'Urmont  d'Urville,  Champs  Elysees.  We  found  here 
on  our  arrival  Mary  Ogden  Strong  and  her  family. 

[77] 


I  saw  a  good  deal  of  them.  She  has  gone  to  Paris. 
The  Willings  are  here,  and  the  Marshall  Fields,  and 
several  other  friends  not  from  Chicago.  I  do  hope 
we  shall  meet  in  Paris.  Frank  and  Eames  join  in 
kind  regards  to  you  and  Mr.  Mason.  They  greatly 
regret  missing  you  at  Baden-Baden." 

In  the  summer  of  1890  she  writes  me  from  Maple- 
wood,  New  Hampshire.  I  was  still  in  Paris  revising 
my  papers  on  The  Women  of  the  French  Salons  for 
collection  in  a  book.  A  part  of  her  letter  was  de- 
voted to  my  own  work.  As  it  was  characteristic,  I 
give  it  with  the  omission  of  a  few  personal  para- 
graphs: 

"My  dear,  dear  friend:  Your  most  welcome  letter 
came  just  as  we  were  leaving  for  the  White  Moun- 
tains, and  I  brought  it  along  with  your  delightful 
article  in  the  July  Century.  Your  Salon  articles  have 
been  most  acceptable  everywhere.  They  have  made 
a  great  hit.  The  New  York  Evening  Post  said  they 
had  made  Salon  articles  the  fashion  and  that  all  the 
papers  were  clamoring  for  them — other  Salon  articles, 
I  mean.  I  didn't  see  this  notice  myself,  but  both 
Frank  and  I  heard  of  it  and  tried  to  get  a  copy  to 
send  you  but  failed.  Shall  you  publish  the  articles  in 
book  form?  I  hope  Doctor  Charcot  has  put  you  en- 
tirely on  your  feet  again. 

"Mrs.  Hamill,  the  present  president  of  the  Fort- 
nightly, wished  to  write  you  about  your  articles,  and 
said  she  would  send  you  the  society's  subjects  for 

[78] 


the  coming  year.  She  and  Nina  Lunt  were  both  can- 
didates for  the  presidency,  and  Nina  was  not  elected, 
though  she  made  a  good  running.  Owing  to  my  posi- 
tion, I  could  not  enter  actively  into  the  campaign. 
The  last  year  of  my  administration  was  many  times 
more  successful  than  the  first.  Many  innovations 
were  introduced  in  the  way  of  outside  essayists, 
speakers,  readings,  and  receptions.  Louis  Dyer  gave 
one  of  his  illustrated  Lowell  lectures  on  Greece,  show- 
ing views  with  a  dark  lantern.  Mrs.  Kendall  spoke 
for  an  hour  and  a  half  most  interestingly  on  the 
modern  stage,  actors  and  actresses.  She  had  great 
success.  We  gave  an  afternoon  reception  to  Miss 
Amelia  B.  Edwards,  and  Mrs.  Erving  Winslow  of 
Boston  (who  had  just  had  such  a  success  in  London 
with  her  Ibsen  readings,  having  been  introduced  by 
Edmund  Gosse,  and  having  in  her  audience  the  dis- 
tinguished Ibsen  scholar,  William  Archer,  also  Mr. 
Gladstone  and  several  other  noted  people),  gave  a 
course  of  four  of  Ibsen's  plays  before  the  Fortnightly. 
Our  members  having  papers  directly  after  the  dis- 
tinguished strangers,  were  Mrs.  Boardman,  Ellen 
Mitchell,  and  Nina  Lunt.  Each  was  on  her  mettle 
and  gave  us  a  brilliant  paper  that  stood  the  com- 
parison to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  all  and  made 
everybody  feel  that  the  standard  of  our  work  is  good. 
The  year  was  to  all  but  two  or  three  very  enjoyable. 
"We  took  a  cottage  this  summer  here.  We  are 
leaving  soon  now  to  wind  up  our  holidays  with  a 

[79] 


short  visit  to  some  friends  at  Bar  Harbor — then  after 
a  few  days  in  Boston,  New  York,  Newport,  and  Bryn 
Mawr  (at  Wayne's  country  house),  we  shall  go  home. 
Let  me  hear  your  future  plans  whenever  you  can  and 
I  will  try  to  be  a  better  correspondent.  Frank  asks 
me  to  tell  you  that  he  has  been  very  gratified  at  the 
evident  impression  your  papers  have  made  on  the 
Century  people  themselves,  as  they  have  treated  them 
with  more  marked  consideration  than  any  series  of 
articles  have  received  within  his  recollection.  Frank 
thinks  you  have  done  in  them  valuable  work.  I  know 
you  would  have  enjoyed  being  here  as  they  were 
coming  out,  but  the  interest  will  live  and  give  you 
much  pleasure  when  you  do  return.  I  hope  you  will 
be  able  to  go  on  with  some  literary  work.  Have  you 
any  in  hand? 

"Mrs.  Dexter  and  her  family,  and  Grace  Howe  are 
in  Europe,  but  will  return  in  October.  Mrs.  Simp- 
son's and  Mrs.  Rogers's  death  you  have  likely  heard 
of.  Judge  Beckwith  died  last  week.  What  a  mourn- 
ful ending  I  am  making  of  my  letter!  Do  write  soon." 
The  year  of  the  Columbian  Exposition  saw  the 
realization  of  many  of  Emily's  lifelong  dreams.  It 
was  a  year  of  unalloyed  pleasure,  though  not  without 
care.  Her  house  was  a  centre  for  many  distinguished 
guests  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  she  moved 
among  them  with  a  smiling  and  gracious  hospitality 
that  none  who  saw  her  will  forget.  Her  face  was 
radiant  with  much  of  the  old  enthusiasm,  and  I  have 

[so] 


a  vivid  picture  in  my  mind  of  her  brilliant  coloring  set 
off  by  the  delicate  tints  of  pink,  or  blue,  or  palest 
green,  which  she  usually  wore.  Her  manner  was 
quiet,  but  sympathetic  and  cordial,  and  she  had  to 
an  eminent  degree  that  invaluable  quality  in  a  host- 
ess, the  self-forgetfulness  which  puts  her  guests  in 
the  foreground  and  calls  out  the  best  there  is  in  them, 
instead  of  imposing  her  own  personality. 

Late  in  the  season,  she  had  the  Princess  Scha- 
hovskoy  staying  with  her  for  a  month.  This  Russian 
lady  of  fine  ideals,  great  exaltation  of  spirit,  and  a 
certain  simplicity  of  life  and  character  that  is  more 
often  found  with  old  traditions  than  among  new 
distinctions,  was  a  maid  of  honor  to  the  Empress  and 
represented  her  at  the  World's  Fair  with  marked 
ability.  She  was  also  an  amateur  sculptor  and  made 
a  bust  of  Mr.  MacVeagh  while  here.  This  pleasant 
friendship  continued  and  resulted  in  several  meetings 
at  Paris  and  elsewhere. 


[81] 


XI 

DURING  all  these  years  of  Emily's  social  activi- 
ties, Mr.  MacVeagh  had  been  untiring  in  his 
devotion  to  the  interests  of  the  city  in  which  he  had 
cast  his  lot.  He  was  a  successful  man  of  affairs  and 
his  business  had  grown  to  large  proportions,  but  he 
always  found  time  to  give  both  money  and  thought 
to  the  moral  and  intellectual  upbuilding  of  the  com- 
munity in  which  he  lived.  In  1874  he  founded  the 
Citizen's  Association.  He  was  also  president  of  the 
Municipal  Art  League,  and  started  the  crusade  for 
ridding  the  city  of  its  deadly  pall  of  smoke.  He  has 
done  much  valuable  work  on  the  executive  committee 
of  the  National  Civic  Federation  which,  growing  out 
of  the  Chicago  Civic  Federation,  was  designed  to 
federate  public  activities  in  various  directions,  phil- 
anthropic, educational,  and  reformatory.  Among  the 
trustees  of  the  University  of  Chicago  he  held  an  hon- 
ored place,  and  he  was  for  many  years  one  of  the 
generous  guarantors  for  the  Thomas  Orchestra.  He 
was  president  of  various  clubs  and  a  frequent  con- 
tributor to  the  Chicago  Literary  Club,  of  which  he 
was  a  prominent  member  and  sometime  president. 
As  an  after-dinner  speaker  he  was  especially  happy. 

[82] 


Many  of  these  speeches  have  been  published,  among 
them  one  made  at  a  banquet  of  the  Commercial  Club 
on  The  Responsibilities  of  Wealth^  and  one  on  Labor 
Unions.  He  also  wrote  a  carefully  considered  paper 
on  Father  Marquette,  showing  a  lively  interest  in  the 
early  history  of  this  country.  Modern  industrial 
questions  had  a  vital  significance  for  him  and  he 
gave  much  time  and  thought  to  composing  the  differ- 
ences between  capital  and  labor.  He  recognized  the 
claims  of  justice,  and  his  attitude  towards  the  trades 
unions  was  a  friendly  and  impartial  one  so  long  as 
they  were  managed  on  sane  lines.  In  1884  his  con- 
victions led  him  to  cast  his  fortunes  with  the  Inde- 
pendent political  party,  which  included  so  many  able 
and  far-sighted  men.  But  he  was  never  a  politician. 
In  1894  he  was  nominated  for  the  United  States 
Senate  on  the  Democratic  ticket.  As  it  was  the 
unanimous  voice  of  the  convention  this  was  regarded 
by  some  as  equivalent  to  election.  Always  a  loyal 
patriot  as  well  as  citizen,  his  firm  principles,  strong 
integrity,  broad  views,  and  long  study  of  political 
and  social  questions,  eminently  fitted  him  to  sit  in 
the  councils  of  the  nation.  He  had  carved  his  own 
fortunes  and  stood  for  all  that  is  best  in  American 
life.  Conservative  by  nature  and  education,  un- 
swerving in  his  fidelity  to  what  he  deemed  the  high- 
est good  of  all,  his  active  intellect  never  permitted 
him  to  lose  sight  of  the  vital  issues  of  the  hour.  But 
he  could  not  stoop  to  the  arts  of  the  demagogue  with- 

[83] 


out  which  the  best  and  strongest  are  likely  to  fail, 
especially  if  they  combine  with  high  ideals  the  culture 
and  refinement  that  proclaim  the  gentleman  the 
world  over. 

Mr.  MacVeagh  made  a  strong  running  but  was 
not  elected,  to  the  great  regret  of  the  many  who 
had  vainly  hoped  that  a  popular  government  might 
mean  the  rule  of  those  best  fitted  by  knowledge,  ex- 
perience, and  character,  to  judge  of  a  country's  needs. 
The  result  of  the  election  was  an  unexpected  land- 
slide involving  the  party  throughout  the  country. 
Perhaps  no  one  could  have  stemmed  the  tide  of  polit- 
ical feeling  that  swept  men  into  power  and  out  of  it, 
regardless  of  personal  qualifications.  In  any  case, 
the  din  of  a  political  campaign  with  all  its  bitterness 
of  attack  and  its  false  as  well  as  humiliating  criticism, 
could  have  had  small  charm  for  a  man  of  Mr.  Mac- 
Veagh's  type.  No  doubt  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
serve  his  country  in  the  Senate  and  he  would  have 
served  it  disinterestedly  and  well,  but  he  was  never 
tempted  to  become  a  candidate  a  second  time. 

This  brief  record  of  a  busy  and  useful  career  shows 
how  many  interests  were  centred  in  the  pleasant 
home  on  the  Lake  Shore  Drive.  In  its  numerous 
gatherings  there  was  always  a  delightful  blending  of 
serious  conversation  on  the  vital  topics  of  the  time 
with  the  lighter  persiflage  of  society.  The  duties  of 
a  citizen  toward  the  world  in  which  he  lives  were 
never  forgotten  amid  the  elegancies  and  amenities 


of  social  life.  The  keynote  was  more  likely  to  be 
struck  by  a  distinguished  author  or  artist,  or  states- 
man or  educator,  but  there  were  clever  men  and 
women  to  follow  the  lead,  and  gaiety  was  not  far 
away.  It  was  never  necessary  to  resort  to  cards  to 
fill  the  hours.  Indeed,  the  distinction  of  this  house, 
which  plumed  itself  on  its  regard  for  the  amenities 
and  did  not  forget  the  lighter  diversions,  was  that  it 
maintained  a  certain  tone  of  intellectuality  in  all  its 
amusements,  though  these  were  never  dull  or  sombre. 


[851 


XII 

BUT  the  shadows  began  again  to  fall  and  failing 
health  touched  the  springs  of  Emily's  exception- 
ally vigorous  life.  Then,  as  always,  she  proved  her 
indomitable  courage.  Brought  many  times  to  the 
verge  of  the  unknown,  which  is  so  near  to  us  although 
it  seems  so  far,  she  rose  from  a  bed  of  suffering  to 
resume  her  old  place,  as  oblivious  of  pain  as  if  she 
had  never  felt  a  touch  of  it.  Only  the  pallor  of  her 
face  betrayed  her  sinking  vitality. 

In  the  meantime  her  still  restless  energies  must 
have  an  outlet.  One  scheme  always  followed  another. 
No  sooner  had  she  realized  a  cherished  design  than 
she  was  straightway  absorbed  in  something  else. 
When  her  city  home  was  completed — though  she 
never  ceased  to  make  changes  and  add  to  her  artistic 
treasures — she  began  to  plan  a  country  house. 

In  July,  1895,  sne  writes  me  from  Dublin,  New 
Hampshire: 

"My  dear  friend:  Really  your  going  to  Europe 
quite  takes  my  breath  away.  Why  didn't  you  go 
last  year  while  we  were  there?  I  like  to  have  my 
friends  at  home  when  I  am.  But  what  decided  you 
so  suddenly?  Where  are  you  going,  for  how  long, 
and  when  shall  you  return?  Do  write  me  all  your 

[86] 


plans  and  send  me  your  permanent  foreign  address. 

"We  very  much  enjoyed  all  the  exercises  in  con- 
nection with  Eames's  graduation  at  Harvard.  We 
gave  dinners  for  him  and  had  dinners  and  other  en- 
tertainments given  for  us  in  Boston  that  were  delight- 
ful. But  you  don't  care  for  such  things,  as  you  were 
born  social  and  grave,  rather  than  social  and  gay. 

"I  like  Dublin  exceedingly  and  expect  to  stay  here 
until  September  first.  Frank  returns  August  first. 
It  looks  as  though  we  should  have  a  place  here  for  a 
permanent  summer  home.  We  have  already  made 
an  offer  for  a  farm  here  and  I  am  drawing  house  plans 
for  it  most  of  my  leisure  hours." 

The  farm  was  bought  and  the  first  designs  grew 
into  a  fine  mansion  with  extensive  grounds  and  many 
acres  of  wooded  land  in  the  shadow  of  Mount  Mon- 
adnock.  From  the  broad  verandah  one  looks  down 
upon  a  beautiful  lake  and  across  the  hills  to  the 
Green  Mountains  nearly  as  far  as  the  distant  Berk- 
shires.  It  is  an  ideal  spot  for  a  summer  home,  cool, 
quiet,  and  secluded,  with  numerous  other  homes 
scattered  about  among  the  trees  and  hills  within  easy 
driving  distance.  But  it  was  some  years  before  these 
plans  were  fully  realized. 

The  autumn  of  1895  found  me  in  Nice,  where  I 
had  gone  with  the  hope  of  reviving  my  husband's 
failing  health.  In  November,  Emily  wrote  me  a  long 
letter  from  which  I  will  take  a  few  characteristic 
passages. 

[87] 


dear  friend:  Your  dear  letter  came  to  me  in 
Ai  wfldn  nf  i  mifiril  iitnr  from  which  I  am  slowly 
lHIJnj  up,  not  yet  having  had  a  dress  on,  only  tea- 
j  -•-.--<  .-.--/  .-..-'xc'ts  I  was  take*  •  tfe  ippendkttb 
July  istnUuK  but  Doctor  Billings  and  Doctor  Mc- 
Arthur  (a  great  s«r§eon)  were  able  to  reduce  the 
fever  so  that  the  operation  didn't  have  to  be  done 
then.  But  it  was  inevitable,  and  as  every  one  in  the 

was  ill,  I  persuaded  these 
|4mifiMK  (alter  tfcev  had  taken  three  days  to 

•       «  •  • 

it)  to  do  tkts  operation  for  me  without 


Frank,  Mocker,  Fatkcr,  Fred,  or  Isabel,  knowing  it. 
Doctor  Riflings  told  Father  and  Frank  that  I  must 
take  bis  rest-cure  (wkkk  meant  complete  isolation) 
in  preparation  far  the  operation.  He  and  I  then  per- 
suaded Frank  to  go  to  Dublin  as  he  couldn't  see  me 
until  the  middle  of  September.  .  .  . 

"To  make  a  long  story  short,  we  kept  our  secret 
from  the  family  for  three  weeks  and  they  all  nearly 
collapsed  when  they  heard  it  later.  .  .  . 

"A  month  ago  we  had  a  letter  from  Wayne,  asking 
us  to  meet  them  in  Cairo  on  December  fifth,  to  go 
up  the  Nile  and  spend  two  months  in  Egypt,  then  to 
return  to  Rome  for  the  rest  of  the  winter  and  spring. 
As  we  shall  not  be  able  to  do  this  I  do  not  know 
whether  they  wiD  grre  it  up  or  not.  Let  me  know 
when  you  expect  to  reach  Rome  and  I  will  write 
diem  freshly  about  TOUT  stay  there.  ...  I  am  sure 
you  will  see  more  or  less  of  them  after  I  have  written. 


You  will  remember  that  Maude  Elliott  has  an  apart- 
ment in  the  Palazzo  Rusticucci.  .  .  . 

"Most  of  my  old  set  of  friends  are  back  here.  Mrs. 
Dexter  returned  this  morning  and  will  be  here  for  a 
part  of  the  winter.  The  Palmers  will  be  here  until 
February,  when  they  may  go  to  Russia. 

"Prince  Wolkonsky  comes  over  to  deliver  the  Lo- 
well lectures  in  February  and  will  deliver  the  same 
course  here  later.  I  am  going  to  ask  the  Princess 
Schahovskoy  to  come  and  pay  me  a  visit  at  the 
same  time.  Mrs.  Adams  spent  seven  weeks  with  her 
in  Russia  this  summer  and  brings  back  the  most  de- 
lightful account  of  her  friends  and  surroundings. 

"The  Fortnightly  meetings  and  Thomas  concerts 
are  perhaps  more  charming  than  ever  and  the  winter 
promises  to  be  very  delightful  socially.  .  .  .  Do  let 
me  hear  from  you  soon  with  all  news  of  yourself." 
But  the  demon  of  ill  health  still  pursued  her.  It 
was  visible  between  the  lines  of  all  her  letters,  though 
she  had  lost  none  of  her  interest  in  her  pursuits  or 
her  friends.  The  shadows  fell  heavily  about  her  for 
the  next  two  or  three  years.  The  loss  of  her  brother 
and  her  father,  with  the  continuous  illness  of  her 
mother,  took  much  of  the  brightness  from  her  life. 
Then  came  two  more  surgical  operations  of  the  most 
serious  and  critical  nature.  But  her  characteristic 
energy  asserted  itself.  In  the  intervals  of  suffering, 
she  occupied  herself  with  plans  for  building  and  fur- 
nishing her  country  home. 

[89] 


In  1900  she  made  a  tour  of  the  world  with  her 
son  and  spent  several  weeks  in  India  with  her  friend 
Lady  Curzon,  wife  of  the  Viceroy,  and  well  known 
in  Chicago  in  her  early  years  as  Mary  Leiter.  On 
this  journey  she  gathered  many  rare  and  beautiful 
things,  some  of  which  found  a  place  in  her  home 
among  the  hills  when  it  was  completed  soon  after 
her  return.  She  had  the  passion  of  the  collector,  but 
it  was  tempered  always  with  the  desire  to  share  with 
those  she  loved  the  pleasure  these  things  gave  her. 
In  bringing  to  her  own  doors  a  few  of  the  well-chosen 
treasures  of  the  centuries,  she  utilized  the  taste  and 
observation  of  her  life  and  found  expression  for  her 
love  of  everything  beautiful  and  artistic.  It  was  not 
the  glitter  of  gold  that  she  sought,  nor  the  garish 
splendor  that  so  directly  suggests  its  material  source, 
but  the  values  that  spring  from  intellect  and  taste 
whose  products  are  mellowed  by  time  and  conse- 
crated by  the  subtle  sentiment  which  the  years  have 
left  behind. 

I  visited  her  at  this  home  in  the  summer  of  1903. 
Perhaps  a  few  extracts  from  my  letters  at  the  time 
will  give  a  better  idea  of  the  place  and  the  life  there 
than  anything  I  could  say  now. 

"  Knollwood,  Dublin,  New  Hampshire, 

"July  16,  1903. 

'  I  had  a  lonesome  ride  yesterday  but  no  trouble. 
The  train  was  late,  but  Mr.  MacVeagh  was  at  the 
station  to  meet  me  and  we  drove  out  in  his  trap.  It 

[90] 


is  a  beautiful  drive  of  five  miles  and  he  had  a  spirited 
horse  that  flew  over  the  road  in  the  crisp,  life-giving 
air. 

"The  house  is  large  and  rambling  like  an  old  manor 
house.  It  was  cold,  and  there  was  a  bright  wood  fire 
blazing  in  the  spacious  hall,  also  in  the  reading  room, 
where  Emily  had  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  biscuit  for 
me  before  going  to  my  room.  It  was  late  and  I  had 
to  dress  for  dinner,  but  I  could  not  help  glancing  out 
of  my  east  window  at  the  semicircle  of  wooded  hills 
and  the  garden  of  flowers  below.  There  is  a  broad 
verandah  with  a  semicircle  extension  opening  into  a 
vine-covered  Italian  pergola  which  leads  to  a  pretty 
little  summer  house.  My  room  would  delight  you. 
It  is  almost  as  large  as  both  of  ours  thrown  into  one 
and  has  four  windows,  as  it  is  open  on  three  sides. 
The  light  summer  furnishings  are  very  dainty,  and 
the  well-appointed  writing  table  suggests  endless  let- 
ters. No  small  detail  is  wanting  to  add  to  my  com- 
fort. The  maid  came  up  to  help  me  unpack  and 
brought  some  lovely  pink  roses  for  me  to  wear  at 
dinner.  We  dined  at  nine  as  other  guests  were  late. 

'Yamei  Kin,  the  interesting  Chinese  lady  we  met 
in  Chicago  last  spring,  is  visiting  Emily  here.  She  is 
picturesque,  as  well  as  charming,  in  her  beautiful 
Chinese  costumes,  with  the  inevitable  roses  worn  low 
in  her  hair  on  each  side.  She  is  finely  educated, 
gifted,  speaks  perfect  English,  and  talks  well.  Her 
tastes  are  scientific,  indeed  she  is  a  physician,  but 


her  interests  are  various  and  cosmopolitan.  After 
dinner  we  drew  about  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  living- 
room  and  discussed  the  affairs  of  the  world  and  the 
universe  until  nearly  midnight. 

"This  morning  I  slept  until  nine  o'clock,  then  rang 
the  bell  and  a  maid  brought  me  a  delicious  cup  of 
coffee,  some  scrambled  eggs,  toast  and  fruit — a  can- 
teloupe  and  fresh  raspberries — with  more  beautiful 
roses.  The  ladies  here  have  breakfast  in  their  rooms. 
Emily  rises  at  six  as  usual,  interviews  the  servants 
and  the  gardener,  and  gives  her  orders  for  the  day. 
Then  she  goes  back  to  her  room,  and  her  breakfast, 
and  her  letters  or  books,  or  whatever  she  has  to  do. 
She  is  a  perfect  hostess  and  plans  the  day  for  her 
guests.  They  drive  a  great  deal  and  there  are  invi- 
tations for  every  afternoon  this  week." 

"July  17,  1903. 

'You  asked  me  to  write  all  about  everything. 
Well,  that  would  be  rather  difficult  to  do  unless  I 
wrote  all  the  time.  But  you  will  like  to  hear  about 
the  place  since  you  could  not  come.  There  are  four 
hundred  acres,  and  five  cottages  hidden  away  some- 
where among  the  trees,  besides  the  main  residence. 
The  spacious  front  verandah  looks  out  upon  a  broad 
terrace,  a  gem  of  a  lake  below,  and  a  wide  sweep  of 
beautiful  country  as  far  as  the  Green  Mountains. 
From  the  dining-room,  which  is  hung  with  panels  of 
Genoese  cretonne  in  lovely  designs,  there  is  a  fine 
view  of  Mount  Monadnock,  which  dominates  the 
countryside. 

[92] 


"The  entrance  hall  and  the  space  above  the  broad 
staircase  are  frescoed  in  black  and  white,  with  hunt- 
ing scenes  from  English  country  life.  Passing  through 
a  pretty  room  on  the  left  you  descend  two  or  three 
steps  into  the  living-room,  which  is  of  colossal  pro- 
portions— seventy  feet  long,  thirty-three  feet  wide, 
and  eighteen  feet  high.  It  is  hung  with  early  French 
and  Flemish  tapestries,  and  decorated  with  exquisite 
embroideries,  Japanese  screens  from  one  to  eight  cen- 
turies old,  a  lamp  from  Damascus,  one  from  a  Japan- 
ese temple,  another  from  India,  high  French  stand- 
ards with  candelabra  of  modern  design,  and  many 
other  rare  and  curious  things  from  the  other  side  of 
the  world.  There  is  old  English  furniture  that  might 
have  graced  a  mediaeval  hall,  and  some  of  the  lighter 
and  more  graceful  designs  of  today.  The  walls  are 
lined  with  books.  At  one  end  of  the  room  there  is  a 
raised  dais  which  serves  for  music,  readings,  or  any- 
thing else  in  the  way  of  entertainments.  At  the  other 
end  is  a  Roman  doorway  taken  from  an  old  Roman 
palace.  The  massive  renaissance  pillars  of  black 
carved  wood  twined  with  vines  and  leaves  in  gold 
relief,  reach  to  the  lofty  ceiling  and  frame  a  large 
fireplace.  A  beautiful  rug  covers  this  part  of  the  pol- 
ished floor,  and  here  is  where  we  gather  round  the 
tea-table,  and  in  the  evening  when  a  bright  fire  is 
blazing. 

4  Yesterday  we  took  a  long  drive  through  the  woods 
and  went  to  a  tea  given  by  Miss  U.  of  Boston." 

[93] 


"July  1 8,  1903. 

"After  finishing  my  letter  yesterday  we  drove 
round  the  lake  and  went  to  Mrs.  F.'s  reception.  I 
met  a  great  many  Boston  people  there,  among  them 
Colonel  T.  W.  Higginson,  who  is  a  delightful  talker, 
serene  and  clear-sighted.  The  atmosphere  of  this 
house  is  literary  without  being  academic.  The 
daughter  writes  novels  that  are  good,  and  plays  the 
harp  well. 

"Doctor  Carl  Lumholtz,  the  Norwegian  biologist, 
archaeologist,  and  traveler,  came  last  night.  We  met 
him  in  Chicago  six  years  ago,  you  remember,  at  a 
large  dinner  at  Mrs.  MacVeagh's.  He  has  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  among  the  primitive  tribes  of 
Mexico  and  Australia,  and  made  a  name  in  the 
scientific  world  by  bringing  to  light  a  great  deal 
about  them  which  had  never  been  known.  After 
dinner  he  told  us  about  his  life  among  these  savages 
of  the  lowest  order,  sang  some  of  their  wild,  weird 
songs,  and  showed  us  the  steps  of  their  strange,  bar- 
baric dances.  Yamei  Kin  has  taught  Eames  many 
of  the  Chinese  dances,  which  seem  to  consist  largely 
in  graceful  posturing,  with  a  fan,  and  they  went 
through  these  afterwards.  Then  we  discussed  civili- 
zation, the  art  of  living,  immortality,  and  the  occult, 
until  a  late  hour.  Curiously  enough  Doctor  Lum- 
holtz, who  belongs  to  many  of  the  most  learned  so- 
cieties of  Europe  and  has  lived  in  the  centres  of 
civilization,  finds  a  certain  fascination  in  absolute 

[94] 


barbarism.  I  wonder  if  we  are  destined  to  go  back 
to  it  in  some  future  age?  Isn't  it  the  logical  result  of 
the  leveling  process?" 

"July  19,  1903. 

"Emily  gave  a  dinner  last  night  for  fourteen  guests. 
The  table  was  a  dream  of  flowers,  the  cuisine  perfect, 
and  the  talk  delightful.  I  have  never  made  a  great 
account  of  money,  you  know,  but  it  does  give  one  a 
great  many  pleasant  things,  not  the  least  of  which 
is  the  charm  of  artistic  surroundings.  Emily  has 
taken  many  ideas  of  social  forms  and  fine  artistic 
living  from  the  English  country-houses  where  she 
has  visited.  These  she  has  adapted  to  our  own  sim- 
pler needs.  Then  she  is  sure  to  have  clever  people 
about  her,  so  the  conversation  is  worth  while  and 
never  dull.  She  is  not  drowned  in  her  accessories  as 
so  many  rich  people  are.  But  the  accessories  are  all 
there. 

"I  don't  leave  my  room  usually  before  eleven,  so 
I  am  having  a  fine  rest.  I  slip  on  a  neglige  and  write 
my  letters  at  the  pretty  little  writing  table,  with  a 
vase  of  roses  in  front  of  me  to  suggest  the  freshness 
and  color  of  life.  Then  we  drive  and  pay  visits  in 
the  afternoon.  The  fine  houses  are  far  apart,  scat- 
tered over  the  hills  and  along  the  lakes  in  the  woods. 
Each  is  different  from  any  other  and  they  are  so 
lost  among  the  trees  that  you  do  not  see  them  until 
they  loom  up  just  in  front  of  you.  Many  of  them  are 
quite  simple,  but  some  of  the  grounds  are  very  ex- 

[95] 


tensive.   They  seem  to  think  nothing  here  of  going 
ten  miles  to  luncheon  or  dinner. 

"The  reception  for  me  is  to  be  on  Tuesday  and  I 
am  to  read  a  paper.  Think  of  me  then." 

"July  22,  1903. 

"The  maid  kindled  a  bright  fire  in  the  fireplace 
when  she  brought  my  breakfast  and  it  looks  very 
cheerful.  I  am  going  to  drive  later  and  afterwards 
to  a  small  literary  affair  at  Mrs.  O.'s,  a  discussion  of 
some  classic,  I  think — perhaps  it  is  about  a  point  in 
Faust.  But  I  will  scribble  a  few  lines  first  to  tell  you 
about  the  reading. 

"It  poured  all  day  and  I  thought  no  one  would 
come  as  the  distances  are  so  great,  but  the  spacious 
room  was  filled.  Doctor  Robert  Collyer,  who  was  to 
introduce  me,  failed  to  appear  in  the  rain.  He  was 
here  at  luncheon  on  Monday  and  kept  us  all  laugh- 
ing for  an  hour  with  his  amusing  stories.  He  is  as 
brilliant  as  ever  and  as  sympathetic.  When  he  went 
away  he  asked  me  what  he  should  say.  I  told  him 
the  safest  course  was  to  say  nothing  at  all,  as  it  was 
really  a  great  risk  to  say  pleasant  things  that  might 
not  be  lived  up  to — and  of  course  he  couldn't  say 
anything  unpleasant — so  he  would  be  saved  any  mis- 
givings afterwards.  Mr.  MacVeagh  introduced  me 
in  one  of  the  humorous  speeches  in  which  he  is  so 
happy,  and  said  many  nice  things.  Emily  added  an 
appreciative  word,  which  was  encouraging,  even  if 
exaggerated  as  it  was  sure  to  be.  But  one  never 

[96] 


quarrels  with  rose-tinted  opinions  of  oneself,  though 
when  one  is  put  on  a  pedestal  there  is  always  the 
fear  of  tumbling  off.  I  was  a  little  nervous,  as  you 
may  imagine,  with  such  men  as  Colonel  Higginson, 
Doctor  Lumholtz,  and  other  critics,  as  listeners. 
However,  I  went  through  the  ordeal,  and  if  people 
didn't  like  the  paper  they  pretended  to  so  success- 
fully that  I  could  not  see  the  difference,  or  even  feel 
it.  They  seemed  enthusiastic.  The  tea  hour  after- 
wards was  very  agreeable,  and  there  were  various 
cheerful  bits  of  discussion  on  the  points  taken  up. 
Altogether,  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  the  apprecia- 
tion. 

"P.  S.  Doctor  Collyer  and  his  friends  arrived 
bright  and  early  this  afternoon  to  hear  the  reading, 
only  to  find  that  it  was  'the  day  after  the  ball.'  He 
had  mistaken  the  day,  much  to  his  apparent  regret, 
and  neglected  to  consult  his  card  a  second  time. 
Memories  are  unsafe  things  to  depend  upon." 

But  all  things  have  an  end,  pleasant  visits  in- 
cluded. Two  years  later  I  was  there  again.  The 
party  was  larger  and  gayer,  but  I  was  sadder.  In 
the  interval  I  had  lost  my  husband  and  been  left 
alone.  There  are  no  intimate  letters  to  record  the 
life,  but  I  recall  it  as  full  of  interest  and  color.  Among 
the  guests  were  Mrs.  Jack  Gardner  of  Boston,  who 
was  very  much  alive  in  many  directions,  and  Mrs. 
Leggett,  who  had  just  come  from  her  London  house 
where  she  goes  for  the  gay  season  and  comes  back 

[971 


fresh  from  a  rich  and  varied  experience.  Loving  the 
world  of  forms  and  amenities,  she  has  also  a  keen 
insight  into  the  serious  side  of  things,  and  the  happy 
art  of  interspersing  thoughtful  asides  of  talk  in  the 
midst  of  the  gayest  scenes.  Her  knowledge  of  men 
and  the  world  gave  a  special  zest  to  these  little  asides, 
which  ranged  from  the  last  book,  or  the  character- 
istics of  some  well-known  people,  to  sociology,  or  the 
philosophy  of  the  occult,  which  interested  her  greatly. 
In  the  evenings  Mr.  Pumpelly,  the  noted  archaeolo- 
gist, gave  us  some  thrilling  adventures  in  Central 
Asia,  or  the  lights  were  lowered  and  a  brilliant  pianist 
rambled  through  the  rich  treasures  of  Chopin  or 
Tschaikowsky  or  some  other  master  of  musical  ex- 
pression. Then  a  pretty  young  girl  sang  exquisite 
Irish  songs  and  English  ballads.  There  was  infinite 
variety,  but  nothing  trite  or  commonplace.  Emily 
never  forgot  the  children  and  planned  a  pony-show 
for  them  in  which  the  six  little  sons  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Charles  MacVeagh — grandsons  of  the  Hon.  Wayne 
MacVeagh — rode  to  their  great  credit  and  delight. 
At  the  pretty  Casino  Mr.  MacVeagh  read  an  able 
paper  on  Labor  Problems.  So  life  was  seen  on  every 
side  and  amusement  was  spiced  with  thought. 


[98] 


XIII 

IN  THE  spring  of  1906  Emily  planned  extensive 
additions  to  her  house  and  after  her  arrangements 
were  completed,  sailed  with  Mr.  MacVeagh  for  Eu- 
rope. Her  doings  there  were  chronicled  in  two  or 
three  letters  which  give  a  better  idea  of  what  she 
called  "the  summer  of  her  life,"  than  anything  I 
could  say: 

"Carl ton  Hotel,  London,  June  20,  1906. 

"  My  dear  friend :  We  have  been  here  just  five  days 
and  are  already  up  to  our  necks  in  engagements. 
Frank  and  I  had  agreed  not  to  let  any  of  our  friends 
know  we  were  here  for  a  week.  I  suppose,  however, 
that  our  names  must  have  been  published  in  the 
Carlton  list  of  arrivals,  as  we  have  seen  or  found 
cards  and  invitations  from  most  of  the  people  we 
know.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meynell  called  the  day  of  our 
arrival,  as  did  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  and  Stella. 
Mrs.  Craigie  came  the  next  day  and  has  already  had 
several  invitations  sent  to  us,  and  taken  me  to  see 
some  famous  historical  houses. 

"Among  others,  she  took  me  to  call  on  Consuelo, 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  and  we  have  just  received 
cards  for  a  function  there  tomorrow  when  Mr.  [now 

[99] 


Sir]  Owen  Seaman,  the  editor  of  Punchy  is  to  read  a 
short  paper,  and  there  is  to  be  music  afterwards. 
The  Duchess  is  called  a  beauty  here.  She  is  very 
distinguished  and  entirely  a  grande  dame.  She  is  a 
cordial  and  captivating  hostess.  Her  face  is  of  the 
frail  and  delicate  type,  with  soft  brown  eyes  and 
hair  nearly  black,  which  she  wears  after  the  manner 
of  the  women  in  Sir  Peter  Lely's  portraits.  She  is 
always  beautifully  gowned,  and  always  looks  pictur- 
esque." 

"June  twenty-first.  We  dined  at  Mrs.  Leggett's 
last  night.  The  Ambassador  and  Mrs.  Reid  were 
there,  the  Marquis  of  Granby  and  Lady  Granby,  and 
several  of  the  Montagues  and  Yorkes.  There  were 
two  tables  in  adjoining  dining-rooms  and,  altogether, 
forty  guests.  Mrs.  Leggett  presided  over  one  table 
and  her  daughter,  Alberta  Montague,  over  the  other, 
which  was  mostly  composed  of  young  people.  Both 
Mrs.  Leggett  and  Alberta  have  a  genius  for  enter- 
taining, so  the  dinner  was  unusually  brilliant. 

"Yesterday  after  writing  you  we  went  with  Mr. 
Meynell  to  have  tea  with  Mrs.  Hunter,  the  friend  of 
John  Sargent,  who  has  painted  her  several  times, 
also  three  of  her  daughters  and  a  son.  These  are  con- 
sidered perhaps  his  best  portraits.  They  are  large 
and  decorative,  and  fill  the  wall  space  of  two  draw- 
ing-rooms which  were,  in  fact,  cut  away  to  give  them 
just  the  right  setting.  The  portrait  of  Mr.  Hunter, 
done  by  another  artist,  hangs  in  a  dark  corner. 


ioo 


Mrs.  Hunter,  Amazon-like,  looks  quite  the  remark- 
able woman  she  is  supposed  to  be.  She  has  much 
humor  and  a  dashing  manner.  We  had  the  jolliest 
of  visits,  full  of  gaiety  and  laughter,  and  we  are  very 
much  pleased  to  have  seen  those  marvelous  portraits, 
which  I  hope  to  tell  you  more  about  some  day." 

"June  twenty-sixth.  We  lunched  at* the  Ambas- 
sador's yesterday  and  learned  the  awful  news  there 
of  the  murder  of  Stamford  White.  Many  who  were 
at  the  luncheon  knew  him  and  we  all  felt  bowed  to 
the  earth.  I  believe  there  is  no  man  whose  life  was 
so  important  to  America  from  an  artistic  point  of 
view  as  his.  How  terrible!  How  horrible!  He  is 
greatly  mourned  at  our  Embassy. 

:<  Yesterday  we  attended  our  second  garden  party 
at  Stafford  House  and  met  no  end  of  Americans. 
The  Duchess  of  Sutherland  is  as  democratic  as  she 
is  beautiful.  We  have  been  asked  to  her  ball  next 
week.  Eames  and  I  met  her  two  years  ago  and  were 
her  guests  three  times  that  season.  Social  affairs  in 
the  London  smart  set  are  certainly  very  fascinating. 
The  appointments  are  all  full  of  splendor,  the  Eng- 
lish women  so  delightful  and  the  English  men  so 
fetching.  We  know  now  so  many  people  in  various 
sets  that  I  wish  we  might  be  here  from  the  middle  of 
May  until  the  middle  of  July  for  some  years  to 
come." 

Emily  had  entertained  Mrs.  Craigie  at  her  own 
house  the  previous  winter  and  her  first  visit  was  at 


her  friend's  country  home.  Her  letter  from  there  has 
a  peculiar  interest,  as  it  recalls  incidents  of  the  last 
days  of  the  gifted  young  author's  life. 

"Steephill  Castle,  Ventnor,  Isle  of  Wight. 

"July  9>  I9^- 

"My  dear  friend:  Frank  and  I  came  here  Satur- 
day to  spend  the  week  end  with  dear  Mrs.  Craigie. 
She  has  been  unceasingly  kind  to  us  since  she  found 
out  that  we  were  in  London.  She  came  directly  to 
our  sitting-room  without  announcement,  fluttering 
in  like  a  bird  in  clouds  of  muslin.  In  a  minute  she 
had  us  down  on  her  tablet  for  a  dozen  or  more  at- 
tractive functions,  and  asked  us  to  come  to  Steephill 
Castle  for  this  date.  The  Castle  belongs  to  Mrs. 
Craigie's  father,  Mr.  Richards,  a  handsome,  kindly 
gentleman  of  the  old  school.  Some  time  I  must  tell 
you  how  finely  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richards,  without 
harming  exterior  or  interior,  have  arranged  quaint 
suites  of  rooms  for  their  two  daughters  and  two  sons. 
The  Castle  is  kept  open  the  year  round,  the  climate 
being  always  good,  so  that  the  children  see  much  of 
each  other  here,  and  they  are  really  devoted,  each 
admiring  the  other  for  various  gifts  and  differing  per- 
sonalities. Mrs.  Craigie  is  the  eldest,  but  not  yet 
thirty-eight.  She  took  us  through  the  Castle  today. 
It  is  very  large  and  full  of  historic  interest.  Its  foun- 
dation dates  six  hundred  years  back.  It  has  a  splen- 
did hall  and  stairway — very  high  and  fine.  It  has 
drawing-rooms,  with-drawing  rooms,  family  rooms 

[102] 


galore,  and  a  large  library — all  with  ceilings  twenty- 
five  feet  high.  Then  there  is  a  fine  Anglican  chapel 
with  a  rose  window  and  wonderful  carved  seats  and 
altar — the  latter  always  dressed  in  lace  altar  covers 
— and  an  old  silver  altar  service.  Mrs.  Craigie,  being 
the  only  Roman  Catholic  in  the  family,  does  not 
worship  here. 

'The  grounds  surrounding  the  castle  with  vistas 
of  garden,  the  long  sweeping  lawns,  and  the  meadows 
beyond,  the  stately  trees  of  centuries'  growth  near 
by,  and  the  high  rugged  moors  shutting  in  the  land- 
scape—all go  to  my  heart  and  soul.  You  would  love 
the  place,  it  is  so  full  of  beauty.  Mrs.  Craigie  grows 
dearer  and  dearer.  I  wish  you  might  know  the  ro- 
mantic and  almost  dramatic  life  she  has  lived,  and 
how  really  loved  she  is  by  various  classes  in  London. 
The  Princess  of  Wales  adores  her  and  gives  her  great 
privileges.  She  took  me  in  London  to  call  on  several 
friends,  not  only  to  meet  them  but  to  show  me  the 
superb  rooms  in  many  of  the  great  houses.  We  went 
to  tea  at  the  houses  of  other  duchesses  besides  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough.  I  can't  go  on  to  name 
them,  for  I  have  been  writing  longer  than  I  thought 
and  now  we  are  going  for  a  last  drive  through  another 
part  of  Ventnor,  then  to  London.  Tonight  we  leave 
for  Scotland  to  spend  a  week  with  Mrs.  Leiter,  then 
back  for  a  second  dinner  at  Mrs.  Leggett's,  where 
we  are  to  meet  more  noted  people,  some  of  whom 
have  entertained  us  charmingly.  The  next  day  Frank 

[  103  ] 


sails  for  home.  I  will  try  to  write  again  from  Tulloch 
Castle,  Mrs.  Leiter's  summer  place.  Lady  Curzon 
has  been  so  ill  that  I  haven't  seen  her.  Mrs.  Craigie, 
her  very  intimate  friend,  has  seen  her  once  lately. 
She  has  been  so  low  that  'Big  Ben'  was  stopped. 
This  has  not  occurred  for  a  century,  and  never  before 
except  for  royalty.  But  it  was  near  and  greatly  dis- 
turbed her.  However,  she  is  much  better  again.  Mrs. 
Leiter  went  to  Scotland  Saturday." 

These  plans  were  changed  a  little  by  the  sad 
death  of  Lady  Curzon,  and  the  sudden,  almost  tragic 
close  of  Mrs.  Craigie's  promising  career  three  weeks 
later.  They  had  been  intimate  friends  in  life.  In 
death  they  were  not  long  separate.  Following  in 
such  quick  succession,  these  crushing  events  cast  a 
heavy  shadow  over  the  season  in  London.  Emily 
had  planned  going  to  the  North  Cape  and  to  Ice- 
land, but  she  changed  her  course  and  went  instead 
to  Paris,  where  she  stayed  the  rest  of  the  summer. 
In  November  she  sent  me  a  line  from  London  just 
before  sailing  for  home.  After  referring  to  her  mem- 
orable visit  so  consecrated  by  sad  memories,  she 
said  she  was  just  going  to  see  Mrs.  Craigie's  parents 
and  sister  at  their  town-house — one  of  the  saddest  of 
visits.  Then  she  added  a  few  words: 

"I  came  last  night,  arriving  in  one  of  the  most 
dreadful  of  fogs.  I  am  sailing  Saturday  on  the  Car- 
onia  and  after  a  few  days  in  New  York  I  shall  be  in 
Chicago. 

[  104] 


"Socially  I  have  had  the  summer  of  my  life.  I 
have  seen  a  great  many  people  of  the  old  French 
society,  something  of  the  Bonapartists,  attended 
luncheons  and  dinners  galore,  and  hobnobbed  in  a 
way  with  the  dear  and  charming  Empress  Eugenie, 
who  was  my  neighbor  at  the  Continental  for  three 
weeks.  Here  I  have  invitations  for  luncheons,  din- 
ners, theatres,  etc.,  until  we  sail.  I  hope  to  see  you 
soon.  If  possible  write  me  at  the  Waldorf,  New 
York. 

"I  am  very  tired  though  happy  and  jolly,  but  not 
at  all  well — in  spite  of  my  goings  on. 

"Lovingly, 

"EMILY." 


[105] 


XIV 

THE  tastes  of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  MacVeagh  were 
cosmopolitan,  though  wherever  they  went  they 
were  always  loyal  to  Chicago  and  devoted  to  its  in- 
terests. But  the  world  of  1907  had  moved  far  from 
the  world  of  1866.  Its  ideals  were  not  the  same.  Its 
modes  of  expression  had  changed.  It  worshiped  at 
new  shrines.  People  talked  no  longer  of  the  literary 
gods  of  the  earlier  generation,  or,  if  they  mentioned 
them  at  all  it  was  to  call  them  old-fashioned  and 
obsolete.  Instead  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and 
George  Eliot,  people  were  reading  problem  novels 
which  solved  nothing,  novels  to  prove  something  and 
twisted  accordingly,  or  novels  written  for  money 
alone  and  often  without  a  trace  of  artistic  value. 
These  served  to  amuse  the  idle  hours  of  the  multi- 
tude who  did  not  wish  to  think,  and  many  of  them 
were  fit  only  to  be  cast  aside  and  forgotten  after  their 
brief  day  was  over.  Among  those  with  finer  ideals 
and  an  artistic  conscience,  Henry  James  and  Mr. 
Howells  led  the  small  procession,  and  Edith  Wharton 
followed  closely,  but  the  delicate  touch  of  an  artist 
was  apt  to  be  lost  in  the  flaring  headlines  that  ad- 
vertised the  best  seller.  People  had  ceased  to  burn 
their  incense  before  literary  gods,  and  said  their 

[106] 


prayers  to  commercial  ones.  Ruskin,  whom  we  had 
adored  in  the  earlier  days,  had  become  simply  a 
brilliant  but  erratic  dreamer  with  a  special  talent  for 
word-coloring.  Carlyle  and  Taine,  with  their  wealth 
of  thought  and  prophetic  vision,  were  outgrown  and 
tossed  aside  for  the  last  compiler  of  facts.  Ibsen  had 
replaced  Shakespeare  in  this  strange  new  world, 
which  left  Tennyson  and  Goethe  dust-covered  and 
forgotten  on  the  book-shelf,  while  it  gazed  with  won- 
dering eyes  on  the  dazzling  pyrotechnics  of  Bernard 
Shaw.  It  was  the  fashion  to  deal  with  economic 
questions  which  had  to  do  with  money,  or  sociolo- 
gical ones  which  held  out  vain  hopes  of  some  Utopia 
where  there  would  be  nothing  to  do  but  "eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry."  The  spiritual  issues  of  life  seemed  to 
be  relegated  to  those  who  made  a  fad  or  a  business 
even  of  these. 

But  knowledge  was  in  the  air,  at  least  the  vapor 
of  it.  Every  one  felt  himself  or  herself  perfectly  com- 
petent to  give  a  final  opinion  on  any  subject,  from  the 
creation  of  the  world  to  its  government  and  ultimate 
destiny.  So  many  theories  were  floating  about  that 
they  quite  obscured  the  sun.  Clubs  had  multiplied, 
and  these  kept  up  a  lively  interest  in  what  was  going 
on  in  the  world  of  the  intellect,  especially  among 
women,  but  they  were  drifting  further  and  further 
towards  the  popular,  the  amusing — dwelling  mainly 
on  the  superficial  aspect  of  things. 

Society  had  become  an  affair  of  elaborate  func- 


tions  and  fine  clothes,  of  receptions,  and  luncheons, 
and  formal  dinners,  and  afternoon  teas,  with  men 
largely  eliminated.  The  quiet  coteries  where  people 
talked  of  vital  things  in  the  spirit  of  those  who  love 
high  converse  for  its  own  sake  and  for  the  light 
evolved,  were  cast  into  the  shade.  Individuality  was 
crushed  out  in  crowds. 

As  I  have  said  before,  it  was  in  the  social  side  of 
life  that  Emily  MacVeagh  was  specially  interested 
and  where  she  made  her  influence  most  felt.  She  was 
distinctly  of  her  age  and  responsive  to  its  lightest 
touch,  but  eager  to  adapt  old  ideals  to  new  condi- 
tions. She  brought  all  her  resources  of  knowledge 
and  taste  to  unite  various  elements  in  a  cosmopoli- 
tan society  which  would  represent  the  best  in  thought 
and  culture  without  falling  into  academic  dullness. 
Not  that  an  academic  society  is  necessarily  dull,  but 
it  is  not  often  cosmopolitan,  and  the  element  of 
gaiety  is  likely  to  be  left  out.  It  was  her  aim  to 
create  an  atmosphere  of  distinction  and  good  breed- 
ing in  which  talent  of  whatever  sort  could  find  both 
expression  and  appreciation.  But  she  loved  the  forms 
and  amenities  and  fostered  all  the  arts  of  refined  liv- 
ing. The  difficulty  of  fusing  these  various  and  often 
contradictory  elements  is  apparent.  People  who 
really  think  to  serious  purpose  do  not  take  readily  to 
a  social  life  in  which  thought  simply  glides  pleasantly 
over  the  surface  of  things,  and  the  world  of  forms  is 
apt  to  tire  of  conversation  that  dips  into  realities  and 

[108] 


deals  in  solid  coin.  The  fusing  element  lies  in  a  sym- 
pathetic personality,  and  this  Emily  had  to  a  large 
degree.  The  company  in  her  house  was  a  varied  one 
within  certain  conventional  limits.  She  welcomed 
talent  and  intellectual  power,  even  in  the  rough,  if 
the  ability  was  large  enough  to  strike  a  balance  with 
the  minor  conventions.  Every  gift  had  her  sympathy 
and  every  high  aspiration  her  encouragement.  This 
spontaneous  sympathy  was  the  keynote  to  her  char- 
acter and  her  social  success.  It  led  her  far  sometimes 
towards  idealizing  those  who  appealed  to  her  heart 
and  imagination.  She  had  the  charity  which  forgives 
or,  at  least,  covers  much  in  a  brilliant  personality. 

I  have  spoken  elsewhere  of  Mr.  L.,  whose  remark- 
able intellect  and  scholarly  attainments  had  so  pro- 
foundly influenced  our  early  lives.  While  he  lived, 
his  hatred  of  sham  and  pretension,  his  insistence  on 
essential  values,  his  rare  critical  insight,  his  severe 
literary  tastes  that  made  no  compromise  with  medi- 
ocrity, and  his  pronounced  aversion  to  artificial  life, 
were  a  constant  offset  to  Emily's  love  of  external 
forms.  She  appreciated  his  point  of  view,  even 
though  she  could  not  always  adapt  her  own  pursuits 
to  it.  Her  liking  for  things  of  the  intellect  was  ac- 
centuated by  frequent  contact  with  a  wonderfully 
clear-seeing  mind  and  rare  knowledge,  but  her  love 
of  aesthetic  surroundings  and  elegant  forms  was  only 
tempered,  not  lessened  by  it.  Her  social  ideals  were 
rather  modified  than  controlled  by  an  influence  which 

[109] 


aujond  was  foreign  to  them.  It  did  not  prevent  her 
from  taking  a  large  account  of  combinations,  which 
is  inevitable  if  society  is  to  be  considered  as  a  fine 
art,  as  it  is  at  a  certain  stage  of  development. 

Mr.  MacVeagh  was  in  full  sympathy  with  his 
wife's  tastes,  but  he  had  also  a  distinct  realization  of 
the  magnitude  and  significance  of  the  questions  so 
prominently  before  the  modern  world.  For  years 
these  had  been  subjects  of  constant  discussion  with 
the  master  mind,  which  considered  them  from  a  phil- 
osopher's point  of  view  in  their  relations  to  a  chang- 
ing past,  as  well  as  to  an  unknown  future.  Mr.  L., 
like  most  thinkers  who  have  not  started  out  to  prove 
a  theory,  was  sanely  conservative,  with  a  mind  open 
to  truth  in  whatever  direction  it  might  lead  him. 
As  years  went  on  he  saw  more  and  more  clearly  the 
drift  of  things  and  their  logical  outcome.  He  was 
familiar  with  the  past  conditions  of  the  world  and 
all  of  the  great  currents  of  thought  which  had  in- 
fluenced its  destinies  since  the  days  of  Plato  and 
Aristotle,  or  further  back  from  the  time  of  the  He- 
brew law-givers.  He  was  not  constructive,  possibly 
he  was  a  little  abstract  in  his  reasoning,  but  he  had 
always  at  his  command  the  philosophical  history  of 
the  ages,  and  it  is  no  doubt  true  that  human  nature 
remains  at  bottom  the  same  and  moves  in  cycles, 
even  if  spirally  upwards. 

But  Mr.  MacVeagh  was  in  the  world  of  affairs  in 
which  practical  issues  were  coming  up  at  every  turn 

[no] 


and  he  saw  the  need  of  compromises  in  the  working 
order  of  things.  This  led  him  to  study  the  applica- 
tion of  modern  theories  to  modern  life,  and  to  meas- 
ure them  by  the  light  of  past  experience.  He  under- 
stood that  the  secret  of  influence  lies  in  grasping 
altered  conditions,  in  seizing  and  directing  new  forces, 
not  in  ignoring  them.  Though  naturally  disposed  to 
be  conciliatory,  he  was  forced  to  take  an  independent 
attitude  towards  political  questions  and  a  fairly  ju- 
dicial one  towards  the  trades  unions  in  the  inevitable 
conflicts  between  capital  and  labor  which  marked  the 
late  nineteenth  century  and  the  early  days  of  the 
twentieth. 

I  have  dwelt  a  little  upon  Mr.  L.,  because  his  fre- 
quent presence  in  the  MacVeagh  family  for  so  many 
years  had  largely  influenced  its  habits  of  thought. 
But  he  had  gone  out  of  the  world  in  1889  and  left  a 
void  in  the  lives  of  those  who  knew  him  well  that  no 
one  else  could  fill.  His  memory  was  still  fresh  and 
green,  and  his  influence  was  still  a  living  one,  but 
perhaps  the  ideals  he  represented  had  lost  some  of 
their  force  in  the  new  age  which  held  to  variable 
standards  and  dazzling  effects.  An  impressionable 
nature  cannot  escape  the  pressure  of  its  time,  and 
Emily,  I  think,  had  left  many  of  the  ideals  of  her 
earlier  days  behind  her  in  the  larger  and  more  com- 
plex world  in  which  she  found  herself.  Her  tastes 
were  the  same,  but  one  must  move  with  the  current 
or  be  submerged.  Her  special  domain,  so  far  as  the 

[mi 


outside  world  was  concerned,  was  a  social  one,  and 
she  still  believed,  as  we  all  must,  that  numbers  are 
fatal  to  the  genuine  spirit  of  any  society,  above  all 
an  intellectual  one,  or,  rather,  a  society  spiced  with 
things  of  the  intellect.  But  the  drift  of  the  age  was 
more  and  more  towards  miscellaneous  gatherings 
united  by  no  tie  save  the  broad  human  one,  and 
merging  individualities  in  masses,  or  drawn  together 
for  some  purpose  quite  foreign  to  a  distinctly  social 
one. 

This  tendency  had  a  curious  culmination  in  the 
winter  of  1907,  when  Mrs.  Potter  Palmer  was  asked 
to  open  her  stately  and  luxurious  home  for  a  meeting 
of  the  National  Civic  Federation  with  the  trades 
union  leaders.  It  was  thought  that  a  better  under- 
standing could  be  reached  if  the  conflicting  elements 
could  be  brought  together  on  a  semi-social  ground. 
Mrs.  Palmer  combined  a  love  of  the  gay  world  with 
a  keen  interest  in  the  vital  problems  of  the  day.  She 
had  been  the  honored  president  of  the  Board  of  Lady 
Managers  of  the  Columbian  Exposition,  and  had 
filled  other  responsible  positions  with  marked  ability. 
Her  beauty,  her  social  prestige,  her  gracious  manners, 
her  large  hospitality,  and  her  administrative  talent, 
all  fitted  her  to  be  a  successful  hostess  on  an  occasion 
that  called  for  infinite  tact  and  penetrating  knowl- 
edge of  people. 

On  this  eventful  evening  Mr.  August  Belmont, 
president  of  the  Civic  Federation,  and  Mr.  Seth  Low, 


one  of  its  most  efficient  officers  and  supporters,  were 
the  chief  speakers  for  the  objects  of  the  Federation. 
On  the  other  side  were  some  of  the  most  active  of  the 
trades  union  leaders.  A  series  of  pictures  thrown  up 
by  a  camera  furnished  an  object  lesson  and  a  text, 
showing  the  great  progress  that  had  been  made  in 
improving  the  conditions  of  the  wage-earners.  The 
invitations  were  limited  to  those  actively  interested 
in  the  questions  discussed,  or  definitely  related  to 
them,  and  included  a  few  of  Mrs.  Palmer's  personal 
friends.  Mr.  MacVeagh  was  chairman  and  presided 
with  his  usual  tact  and  discretion.  He  was  interested 
in  the  legitimate  aims  of  the  unions  and  had  often 
used  his  best  efforts  to  compose  the  constantly  re- 
curring difference  between  capital  and  labor,  in  the 
spirit  of  strict  justice.  But  he  saw  the  dangerous 
drift  of  events  and  the  need  of  a  clearer  understand- 
ing. It  was  doubtless  a  good  thing  for  each  side  to 
know  what  the  other  was  doing  and  thinking,  but  I 
was  struck  with  the  fact,  which  has  been  demon- 
strated from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  that  the 
side  on  which  the  strongest  passions  are  enlisted  is 
quite  sure  to  override  the  party  of  reason  and  pre- 
cedent in  a  public  discussion.  There  is  a  certain  mag- 
netism in  the  voice  of  stirring  passions  that  is  apt 
to  sweep  an  unthinking  crowd  into  the  belief  in  any 
grievance  either  real  or  imaginary.  Reason  and  jus- 
tice are  as  helpless  before  it  as  a  dove  in  a  tropical 
storm.  In  spite  of  an  effort  to  be  courteous  and  con- 


ciliatory  on  the  part  of  the  union  speakers,  the  under- 
current of  veiled  menace  and  defiance  was  plainly 
visible,  though  these  were  not  directly  expressed. 

I  refer  to  this  meeting  because  it  showed  so  clearly 
the  drift  of  things,  and  because  it  was  in  a  line  with 
the  active  public  interests  of  Mr.  MacVeagh,  though 
I  do  not  think  it  was  suggested  by  him.  Emily  had 
little  faith  in  the  results  of  such  a  conference,  but 
the  peculiar  blending  of  the  social  and  political  sides 
of  life  appealed  to  her  curiosity,  and  she  interested 
herself  accordingly.  It  was  a  part  of  history  in  the 
making.  How  far  the  chasm  between  opposing  fac- 
tions can  be  bridged  over  by  meetings  on  an  arti- 
ficial basis  may  be  a  matter  of  doubt,  but  at  all 
events  the  experiment  had  a  definite  interest  as  a 
landmark  in  the  records  of  the  time. 

Later  in  this  same  winter  Emily  had  a  serious  fall 
which  confined  her  to  her  bed  for  several  weeks.  It 
came  at  an  unfortunate  time,  as  she  had  cards  out 
for  a  large  dinner  and  reception  given  for  Ambassa- 
dor and  Mrs.  Bryce,  who  were  to  spend  some  days 
at  her  house.  With  her  characteristic  courage  and 
energy  she  refused  to  recall  the  invitations  and  di- 
rected the  whole  affair  from  her  couch  of  suffering. 
The  distinguished  guests  made  their  visit  and  every- 
thing was  arranged  for  their  pleasure  and  comfort. 
The  daily  little  talks  in  her  room  helped  to  pass  the 
hours.  For  the  dinner  she  had  an  efficient  aid  in 
Mrs.  Marshall  Field,  an  old  and  intimate  friend  who, 


with  two  or  three  others,  received  her  guests.  The 
evening  passed  without  a  jarring  note,  except  that 
her  own  gracious  presence  was  greatly  missed.  The 
Ambassador,  with  his  profound  insight  into  Ameri- 
can life  and  his  familiarity  with  the  vital  questions 
which  interest  us  most,  was  himself  an  inspiration. 
I  was  struck  with  his  modesty  about  expressing  de- 
cisive opinions  on  great  questions  which  our  school- 
boys and  schoolgirls  seem  to  consider  themselves 
competent  to  decide  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
In  speaking  of  the  intelligence  of  this  country  I 
expressed  surprise  and  regret  that  it  had  developed 
no  great  poets  or  critics.  "But  you  have  your  rail- 
road presidents,"  he  replied  with  easy  tact. 

This  certainly  was  not  final  nor  intended  to  be 
so,  but  it  was  suggestive. 

In  February  of  this  year  the  MacVeaghs  went  to 
Washington.  The  interesting  details  of  their  visit  are 
best  given  in  Emily's  own  words. 

"February  15,  1907. 

"My  dear  friend:  Our  visit  will  be  over  in  two  or 
three  days  and  but  for  a  miserable  coughing  cold 
that  I  took  in  the  sleeping  car  coming  and  that  has 
grown  worse  until  now  when  we  are  refusing  all 
evening  things — because  they  mean  low  gowns  of 
course — our  stay  here  would  have  been  perfect,  our 
friends  having  done  so  much  for  us.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  told  you  several  had  telegraphed  us  invitations 
before  we  left  home. 


"Our  first  dinner  was  at  Mrs.  Hope  Slater's — her- 
self, her  company,  her  dinner  and  her  house  equally 
brilliant.  Senator  Foraker  took  me  in  to  dinner  and 
I  sat  the  next  woman  to  Mrs.  Slater.  Next  day  we 
went  to  Abby  Eddy's — everything  very  dainty  and 
exquisite — charming  company,  including  Josephine 
Houghteling  Canfield,  formerly  of  Chicago.  She  has 
lost  none  of  her  wit  or  wisdom,  and  it  was  delightful 
to  see  her  again.  Then  we  dined  Friday  at  Mrs. 
Warder's — professional  dancing  to  amuse  us  after- 
wards. Saturday  we  attended  the  official  dinner 
given  by  Attorney  General  and  Mrs.  Bonaparte 
(friends  of  ours  for  eighteen  years)  to  the  Chief 
Justice  and  other  Justices — twenty-six  in  all — grace- 
fulness pervading  everything.  Then  Mrs.  Leiter  gave 
us  a  luncheon  of  thirty  guests — music  afterwards. 
Yesterday,  Mrs.  Cabot  Lodge  of  Massachusetts, 
other  old  friends;  Sunday — at  the  William  Slaters' — 
going  afterwards  to  see  the  Johnston  collection  of 
pictures,  celebrated  as  you  know. 

"The  only  thing  I  missed  last  week  that  I  regret- 
ted was  the  reception  to  the  Army  and  Navy  at  the 
White  House,  to  which  the  President  and  Mrs.  Roose- 
velt invited  us.  But  Frank  thought  I  was  going  into 
pneumonia  and  wouldn't  let  me  go  or  go  himself. 
However,  we  are  to  take  luncheon  with  them  at  the 
White  House  today,  so  I  am  still  in  luck.  Tomorrow 
Mrs.  Patterson  has  us,  and  Admiral  and  Mrs.  Cowles 
on  Sunday;  the  latter  is  a  sister  of  the  President's, 


and  an  old  friend  who  showed  us  every  attention 
when  she  was  with  her  brother,  the  first  secretary  of 
legation  in  London  while  Mr.  Bayard  was  ambassa- 
dor there. 

"This  is  a  scrawl  only  to  communicate  with  you. 
Nothing  else  is  possible  in  such  crowded  days.  I  am 
seeing  too  many  others  to  mention — my  dear  friend, 
Miss  Scidmore,  Mrs.  Hosmer,  Carrie  Williams,  Delia 
Field.  I  shall  have  so  much  to  tell  you  out  of  this 
mere  summary." 

I  had  been  asked  to  spend  two  or  three  weeks  at 
Knollwood  this  summer  of  1907,  and  on  July  seven- 
teenth Emily  wrote  me,  giving  specific  directions  as 
to  my  route  and  adding  the  few  lines  that  follow: 

"On  Saturday  afternoons  the  Dublin  Club  gives 
entertainments.  They  used  to  have  a  fifteen-minute 
paper — this  year  the  time  is  extended  to  thirty  min- 
utes. I  am  commissioned  by  the  committee  to  ask 
if  you  will  read  your  paper  on  Anatole  France  August 
thirtieth.  The  remainder  of  the  afternoon  is  to  be 
devoted  to  a  reception  to  Joe  Smith,  who  returns 
August  second  from  a  winter  in  Egypt  and  Italy." 

It  was  Emily  who,  as  chairman  of  the  committee, 
had  first  suggested  these  entertainments,  which  gave 
an  intellectual  flavor  to  the  social  meetings  of  the 
club.  Many  interesting  speakers  and  writers  appear- 
ed there.  Among  them  were  Colonel  T.  W.  Higgin- 
son;  Mr.  Basil  King,  the  novelist;  "Mark  Twain"; 
Professor  Richards  of  Harvard;  Mr.  Henderson,  an 


historical  writer;  Mr.  Pumpelly,  who  talked  of  his 
explorations  in  Central  Asia;  Professor  Schofield  of 
Harvard,  a  brilliant  scholar  and  student  of  compara- 
tive literature;  Mr.  Joseph  Linden  Smith,  the  artist, 
whose  witty  talks  always  insured  a  large  audience; 
Professor  Laughlin,  of  the  University  of  Chicago, 
who  spoke  on  economic  questions;  Mr.  MacVeagh, 
who  discussed  industrial  problems;  and  many  others, 
literary,  artistic,  scientific,  and  sociological.  These 
affairs  were  a  source  of  great  pleasure  to  the  summer 
colony,  as  they  were  varied  and  interesting.  My 
little  paper  was  duly  read,  at  an  earlier  date  than 
was  first  set,  and  pleasantly  appreciated. 

This  summer  Mrs.  Neville,  an  old  schoolmate  of 
Emily's,  visited  her  while  I  was  there.  I  had  known 
her  in  youth  as  Ella  Hoes,  and  the  meeting  across  a 
lifetime  was  a  pleasant  one.  An  extract  from  a  letter 
which  she  wrote  to  Emily  from  New  Haven  may  be 
of  interest  here. 

"Wandering  about  the  streets  of  the  old  city,  with 
their  familiar  buildings  looking  just  the  same,  even 
going  into  Grove  Hall,  having  a  look  at  the  reception 
room  where  you  entertained  your  frequent  visitors — 
you  were  always  the  most  popular  of  the  girls — and 
at  the  dining-room  which  had  shrunk  and  shriveled 
from  my  memory  of  it,  and  our  old  room — oh,  how  it 
brought  back  the  past  when  you  were  so  good  to  me. 
I  felt  that  I  must  write  and  thank  you. 

"When  I  stood  in  our  corner  room  I  recalled  your 

lul] 


struggle  and  perseverance  in  making  me  read  your 
daily  New  York  paper — and  The  Princess — do  you 
remember?  I  wonder  what  I  would  have  been  had 
you  not  taken  me  in  hand  when  so  young — only  four- 
teen !  With  such  training  I  ought  to  have  amounted 
to  something  and  grieve  that  it  has  not  been  more." 
Shortly  after  I  left,  later  in  the  season,  came  a 
letter  which  will  speak  for  itself. 

"August  29,  1907. 

"My  dear  friend:  There  are  too  many  things  I 
wish  to  say  for  one  letter,  but,  while  the  matter  is 
fresh  in  my  mind,  shall  I  tell  you  about  James  Kid- 
der's  luncheon  which  he  gave  to  Prince  Wilhelm  of 
Sweden,  Tuesday  noon  at  the  Somerset  Club  in 
Boston?  Jim  invited  Boston's  smartest  (including 
four  girls)  to  the  extent  of  twenty-six  covers.  Peo- 
ple flocked  in  from  their  various  country-seats  in 
fine  form  and  fine  spirits  and  everything  went  off 
genially  from  the  start.  The  table  was  laid  with 
lilies  of  the  valley  and  feathery  ferns.  It  pleased  the 
Prince.  He  said  to  me,  '  I  love  the  lilies  of  the  valley. 
I  always  run  after  them  when  they  first  appear  in 
the  spring. '  He  speaks  English  easily,  with  little  ac- 
cent, and  has  a  clear,  good  voice.  He  seems  quite 
twenty-nine  or  thirty  but  is  only  twenty-three,  and 
doesn't  look  in  the  least  like  a  Swede,  having  his 
mother's  brown  hair.  She  is  a  German,  you  know. 
I  saw  more  or  less  of  her  the  winter  we  spent  in 
Rome  when  Wayne  was  American  Ambassador.  She 


was  in  the  same  hotel  that  we  were.  I  saw  her  again 
for  a  moment  in  Anacapri  in  1904,  when  we  spent  a 
day  with  her  physician,  Doctor  Munthe.  It  was  she 
who  let  Eames  have  bronzes  cast  from  her  special 
models  when  he  spent  the  next  winter  with  his  uncle 
in  Rome.  But  I  didn't  intend  to  run  off  to  the  Crown 
Princess,  so  I  will  run  back  to  the  son. 

"Jim  gave  me  the  place  of  honor  between  the 
Prince  and  the  new  Swedish  Minister,  Baron  de  Lag- 
ercrantz,  the  Prince  taking  me  into  luncheon.  Mrs. 
Jack  Gardner  sat  on  his  left.  .  .  . 

"Everybody  was  presented  to  the  Prince  formally 
before  luncheon — doing  their  little  courtesies — but 
afterwards  I  introduced  the  girls  informally  and  all 
enjoyed  this  very  much.  Some  dozen  of  us  went 
down  with  him,  by  invitation,  later,  on  Colonel 
Hayden's  yacht,  to  Governor  and  Mrs.  Guild's  gar- 
den party  at  Nahant,  returning  by  motors.  He  dined 
that  night  at  Providence — going  by  special  train— 
and  attended  two  more  receptions  that  evening.  He 
is  distinctly  of  a  good  sort,  does  his  own  thinking  and 
speaking.  He  touched  no  wine  at  luncheon,  but  he 
does  smoke  cigarettes  rather  often. 

"I  left  off  here  five  days  ago.  It  is  now  after  one 
o'clock,  September  third — my  mother's  wedding  day, 
by  the  way — and  the  mail  is  just  going,  so  I  will  send 
this  and  write  backwards  next  time,  there  is  so  much 
else  to  say.  Josie  Dexter,  Professor  Lumholtz,  and 
three  men  friends  of  Frank's  come  Thursday  for  over 

[120] 


Sunday.  Tomorrow  Mrs.  Cheney  is  to  be  married  to 
Professor  Schofield  and  going  with  him  to  Germany. 
We  all  are  full  of  regret  at  their  going.  Friday  I  am 
giving  a  luncheon  to  the  Ambassador  from  Germany, 
Baron  von  Sternberg  and  his  wife,  as  he  does  not 
feel  well  enough  to  go  to  dinners.  I  have  seen  a  good 
deal  of  the  Baroness  lately. 

"Now,  tell  me  so  very  much  more  of  your  visit. 
Dublin  is  gay,  too  gay  for  me.  Frank  is  riding  or  he 
would  have  sent  messages." 

A  few  weeks  later  Emily  visited  Mrs.  Neville's 
daughter  in  Tuxedo.  She  was  the  wife  of  Mr.  Mason, 
the  principal  heir  to  the  large  Smith  estate.  The 
letter  explains  itself: 

"Kincraig,  Tuxedo  Park, 
"September  23,  1907. 

"My  dear  friend:  I  am  just  leaving  this  charming 
place,  that  came  to  the  George  Masons  from  their 
uncle,  Mr.  James  Henry  Smith,  you  know.  It  is 
delightfully  situated  above  a  deep  ravine,  with  fine 
green  trees  on  each  side,  and,  below,  a  dark  running 
river.  The  views  from  everywhere  are  fascinating — 
many  high  hills  with  beautiful  slopes  beyond.  Lady 
Cooper  (Mr.  Smith's  sister)  says  they  are  like  Scot- 
land— I  say,  then  Scotland  at  its  best,  for  it  is  far 
finer  to  me.  The  house  is  a  gentleman's  house  with 
many  rare  things  in  it. 

"I  am  ready  a  few  minutes  before  breakfast.  We 
go  directly  afterwards  to  the  town  house  in  New 

[121] 


York  where  I  am  going  to  tell  the  Masons  something 
about  the  tapestries  and  furniture  that  I  happen  to 
know. 

"You  ask  when  I  shall  be  in  Chicago.  I  hope  to 
be  there  the  last  week  in  October.  The  household 
will  leave  Dublin  about  the  twelfth,  but  I  shall  stop 
in  New  York.  The  Eddys  and  Beveridges  are  due 
there  tomorrow.  They  are  coming  on  the  same  ship. 
Delia  is  awaiting  Abby  who  goes  off  with  her.  Delia 
suggests  motoring  back  to  Dublin  with  Abby  for  a 
few  days." 


[122] 


XV 

I  AM  not  writing  a  "Life,"  or  anything  in  the  nature 
of  one,  only  a  few  records  of  things  that  came 
under  my  personal  observation,  so  I  pass  over  many 
periods  which  were  full  of  vivid,  but  less  vital  or 
significant  interests.  As  the  years  go,  one  is  tempted 
to  linger  over  the  sunny  spots  in  the  past.  The  say- 
ings and  doings  of  those  we  love  take  on  a  fresh  in- 
terest as  we  glide  faster  and  faster  towards  the  shad- 
ows beyond  which  we  cannot  see.  Happy  those  who 
can  carry  the  sunshine  to  the  extreme  verge!  It  is 
the  serious  and  the  light,  the  sad  and  the  gay,  that 
I  have  to  chronicle,  but  it  is  a  life  interlaced  by  a 
thousand  tendrils  with  other  lives,  a  private  life  it 
is  true,  but  perhaps  the  more  intensely  human  that 
its  energies  went  into  many  channels,  instead  of  fol- 
lowing a  single  deep  and  powerful  current. 

In  the  spring  of  1908  Emily  had  another  long  and 
severe  illness,  and  early  in  the  summer  was  glad  to 
go  to  her  pleasant  country  home  for  rest  and  quiet. 
She  had  more  of  her  old  friends  about  her  than  usual, 
as  two  of  them  had  taken  houses  not  far  from  her 
own.  They  were  near  enough  for  much  familiar  in- 
tercourse, but  a  dark  cloud  hung  over  this  peaceful 

[123] 


life  in  the  fatal  illness  of  one  of  her  oldest  and  dearest 
friends,  Mrs.  Augustus  Eddy,  who  was  spending  a 
part  of  the  summer  with  her  sister,  Mrs.  Marshall 
Field. 

Mrs.  Eddy,  who  was  the  Abby  referred  to  in  some 
of  her  letters,  had  always  counted  for  much  in  the 
gayer  social  life  of  Chicago,  but  fate  had  laid  its 
pitiless  finger  upon  her  and  she  was  slowly  but  surely 
fading  out  of  the  world.  She  was  an  attractive  wo- 
man with  great  charm  of  manner  and  thoughtful  con- 
sideration for  her  friends.  She  loved  beautiful  things, 
was  passionately  fond  of  flowers,  and  interested  in 
the  curiosities  which  Nature  scatters  with  so  lavish 
a  hand  in  hidden  and  solitary  places.  Her  taste  was 
exquisite  and  was  apparent  in  all  the  details  of  her 
home.  She  liked  to  design  things  to  add  to  its  at- 
tractions, and  to  the  originality  of  her  numerous  en- 
tertainments. Music,  too,  she  loved,  and  week  after 
week  when  at  home  she  could  be  seen  sitting  in 
shadow  at  the  back  of  her  box  at  the  Thomas  con- 
certs, often  alone,  and  always  absorbed  in  the  inspir- 
ing harmonies.  "This  is  the  best  thing  we  have," 
she  said,  "the  one  thing  I  never  tire  of." 

But  this  summer  she  had  left  all  these  things  be- 
hind her  forever,  though  perhaps  not  consciously,  as 
her  friends  hoped  that  her  life  might  be  prolonged 
for  some  years.  I  was  staying  with  Mrs.  Field  for  a 
few  days  while  she  was  there  and  was  constantly 
struck  with  the  brave  spirit  in  which  she  met  the 


inevitable.  Never  a  word  of  complaint,  not  even  a 
reference  to  the  suffering  which  we  knew  was  ever 
present.  Her  days  passed  quietly,  with  long  drives 
through  the  woods  and  along  the  borders  of  the  lake, 
noting  every  point  of  beauty  in  the  peaceful  land- 
scape, or  dropping  in  for  an  occasional  cup  of  tea 
with  a  friend,  even  appearing  a  few  times  at  an  in- 
formal dinner,  looking  so  fresh  and  talking  so  pleas- 
antly that  it  was  impossible  to  believe  that  her  days 
were  numbered. 

Socially,  the  summer  in  Dublin  was  a  delightful 
one.  There  was  leisure  for  conversation  in  the  small 
coterie  of  clever  and  interesting  men  and  women  who 
gathered  about  the  luncheon  and  dinner  tables.  Mrs. 
Field  was  a  charming  and  gracious  hostess,  who  al- 
ways inspired  her  guests  with  something  of  her  own 
buoyancy  of  spirit.  She  loved  people  and  took  keen 
delight  in  giving  them  pleasure.  In  spite  of  her  own 
ill  health,  Emily  kept  up  the  hospitable  traditions 
of  Knollwood,  which  had  been  so  long  a  centre  for 
the  social  life  of  the  countryside.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  weeks  I  spent  there  that  summer.  She  had  a  fa- 
vorite horse  which  she  drove  herself  and  we  passed 
the  mornings  in  the  woods  seeking  remote  and  ob- 
scure roads  where  the  automobile  had  not  yet  in- 
truded to  disturb  the  solitudes.  We  talked  of  the 
past,  the  future,  of  life  with  its  unsolvable  problems, 
of  the  insufficiency  and  instability  of  all  things,  of 
people,  of  society,  of  early  dreams,  of  disillusions, 


of  the  numberless  memories  that  crowd  upon  the 
thoughtful  mind  with  a  note  of  interrogation  out  of 
the  distant  perspective,  of  the  lives  that  had  been 
lived,  of  the  hearts  that  had  been  broken,  of  the 
careers  of  meteoric  brilliancy  within  our  own  ken, 
of  the  blank  wall  looming  up  at  the  end,  beyond  which 
only  the  spiritual  vision  can  penetrate — all  this  and 
much  more,  while  the  leaves  rustled  overhead  and 
the  birds  sang  all  about  us,  and  no  echo  from  the 
clashing  world  reached  us. 

Then  there  were  friends  perhaps  at  luncheon  and 
other  friends  at  dinner,  when  the  talk  ran  along  the 
line  of  current  events,  or  touched  upon  the  last  new 
book,  or  lingered  among  the  curious  complexities  of 
social  life.  If  the  discussion  grew  too  serious  Mr. 
MacVeagh  lightened  everything  with  a  flash  of  hu- 
mor, dissolving  controversies  in  a  ripple  of  laughter. 

But  one  cannot  linger  forever  among  the  pleas- 
ant oases  of  life.  The  last  evening  came.  Mrs.  Field 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eddy  were  there  at  dinner,  which 
was  a  jolly  affair  and  quite  informal.  Mrs.  Eddy 
looked  very  charming  in  her  beautiful  gown  of  some 
gauzy  texture,  set  off  with  a  few  rare  jewels  and  the 
pearls  which  suited  her  so  well.  She  said  a  great 
many  clever  things  that  night,  but  went  away  early. 
I  never  saw  her  again.  The  next  morning  I  left. 
She  faded  slowly,  rallying  from  time  to  time  and 
giving  hope,  but  her  old  home  saw  her  no  more.  In 
the  first  days  of  the  new  year  she  passed  out  of  the 


sight  of  her  friends  into  the  light  of  the  Beyond. 

This  was  the  first  break  in  the  little  circle  of 
Emily's  intimate  friends,  and  the  sad  close  of  a  long 
and  tender  relation.  These  friendships  do  not  repeat 
themselves  in  later  life.  A  vacancy  left  in  the  ranks 
is  never  filled.  The  most  persistent  optimist  cannot 
quite  forget  this.  The  only  thing  to  be  done  is  to 
hope  for  things  we  cannot  see,  trust  in  things  we 
cannot  know,  and  cherish  tenderly  those  who  are 
left  to  us. 


[127] 


XVI 

IN  THE  spring  of  1909  President  Taft  appointed 
Mr.  MacVeagh  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  This 
call  to  one  of  the  most  important  positions  in  the 
Cabinet  was  all  the  more  gratifying  that  it  came 
unsought.  It  was  a  sudden  and  unexpected  realiza- 
tion of  the  early  dreams  which  he  had  practically 
renounced  when  he  was  compelled  by  ill  health  to 
exchange  his  chosen  profession,  the  law,  for  a  busi- 
ness career.  But  he  had  never  lost  his  interest  in  the 
problems  of  government,  or  ceased  to  be  a  student 
of  economic  and  industrial  conditions,  so  that  he  was 
well  equipped  for  the  position  which  came  to  him  as 
a  fitting  crown  to  his  life. 

Emily  was  specially  qualified  by  her  wide  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  her  experience  in  social  affairs, 
and  her  facility  of  adaptation,  for  the  duties  that  fall 
upon  the  wife  of  a  cabinet  minister.  But  it  involved 
leaving  the  beautiful  home  into  which  she  had  built 
so  much  of  her  life,  with  all  its  old  associations,  and 
installing  herself  in  a  new  one.  With  her  usual 
energy  she  began  at  once  to  look  over  the  situation 
and  make  arrangements  for  a  change  of  residence  in 
the  fall.  The  late  spring  months  were  spent  in  Wash- 
ington and  the  summer  was  passed  in  Dublin,  New 


Hampshire,  where  both  gathered  strength  for  the 
arduous  duties  which  even  then  were  absorbing  them. 
The  winter  of  1910  saw  them  fairly  launched  on 
their  new  career.  It  was  my  privilege  and  pleasure 
to  visit  them  soon  after  the  first  of  the  year  and  I 
cannot  give  a  better  idea  of  their  life  in  Washington 
than  by  quoting  from  the  letters  written  by  me  at 
the  time. 

"Washington,  January  n,  1910. 

"My  dear  N.:  You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  my 
journey  was  a  very  comfortable  one,  thanks  to  the 
kind  friend  who  placed  a  drawing-room  at  my  dis- 
posal. I  rested  and  meditated  in  solitude  at  my  ease. 
It  gives  one  a  curious  sense  of  isolation,  this  rushing 
through  the  country  to  all  intents  and  purposes  alone. 
You  almost  wish  something  would  happen — some- 
thing pleasant  of  course — but  nothing  does. 

"I  reached  here  two  hours  late  and  found  the  car- 
riage awaiting  me  at  the  station.  It  is  quite  a  drive 
to  the  MacVeagh  home,  which  is  on  the  hill  in  a 
section  that  was  almost  uninhabited  when  I  was  here 
many  years  ago.  The  house  is  modeled  after  an  old 
Venetian  palace  and  is  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of 
fine  new  residences,  mostly  occupied  by  foreign  dip- 
lomats. 

"I  found  Emily  deep  in  her  daily  councils  with  her 
secretary,  who  is  familiar  with  the  endless  shades  and 
variations  of  Washington  social  life.  This  is  an  edu- 
cation in  itself;  it  does  not  come  by  intuition.  But 

[129] 


woe  betide  you  if  you  do  not  know  the  subtle  line 
which  marks  the  difference  between  Mrs.  A.  and  Mrs. 
B.  No  royal  princess  was  ever  half  so  tenacious  of 
her  right  of  precedence  as  the  woman  from  the  fron- 
tier who  suddenly  finds  herself  on  some  unfamiliar 
official  pinnacle,  and  is  intent  upon  living  up  to  what 
she  considers  her  position  and  making  other  people 
live  down  to  theirs.  If  you  make  a  mistake  you  may 
rouse  a  social  cataclysm,  or  your  husband's  pet  meas- 
ure, if  he  has  any,  may  be  lost.  Many  are  the  pitfalls 
in  the  path  of  the  wisest  of  officials.  Many  are  the 
qualities  needed  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  these  is 
tact,  because  all  the  others  may  be  useless  without 
it— and  this  includes  the  wife's  tact.  Happy  the 
statesman  to  whom  the  gods  have  given  a  tactful 
wife! 

"This  new  life  appeals  to  Emily.  She  loves  its  var- 
iety and  even  its  duties,  which  are  far  from  light. 
You  would  be  surprised  at  all  she  is  able  to  do.  Her 
energy  is  inexhaustible.  She  has  fitted  up  her  house 
in  a  distinctive  fashion,  as  she  knows  so  well  how  to 
do.  The  rare  things  she  gathered  for  her  Chicago 
home  have  a  new  setting,  but  they  recall  the  old  at- 
mosphere. The  rugs  and  tapestries  are  re-arranged, 
the  curios  disposed  of  in  artistic  contrasts.  There  are 
statuettes  from  Greece,  old  columns  from  Rome,  with 
interesting  little  stories  attached,  carved  ivories  from 
the  Orient,  and  crystals  of  rare  perfection  in  which  to 
read  your  fate.  She  had  a  new  one  last  fall,  so  there 

[130] 


are  seven,  some  of  them  quite  large  and  of  great 
value.  All  these  relics  of  a  far  past  give  the  rooms  an 
air  of  refinement  which  no  upholsterer's  art,  however 
luxurious,  can  ever  furnish. 

"But  later  I  will  say  more.  This  is  only  to  tell  you 
that  I  am  safely  here  in  the  loveliest  of  homes,  with 
the  loveliest  of  hostesses,  and  that  I  love  you  always." 

"January  12,  1910. 

"My  dear  N.:  Today  I  have  had  my  introduction 
to  one  phase  of  Washington  life.  It  is  the  weekly 
reception  day  of  the  cabinet  ladies  and  I  assisted 
Emily,  together  with  Mrs.  Dexter,  Mrs.  John  M. 
Clark,  Mrs.  James  B.  Waller  and  one  or  two  others. 
To  be  a  public  servant  in  a  democratic  country  is  no 
sinecure.  All  the  world  is  privileged  to  intrude  upon 
your  privacy.  People  you  have  never  seen  or  heard 
of,  come  alone  and  in  groups  to  see  your  house,  your 
bric-a-brac^  your  gowns,  and  your  friends.  This  is 
the  penalty  of  political  honors.  But  there  are  invis- 
ible barriers  and  these  days  are,  on  the  whole,  agree- 
able as  well  as  interesting. 

"There  were  two  or  three  hundred  visitors  here 
today,  many  charming  people  of  course,  and  some 
who  came  purely  out  of  curiosity  to  see  what  they 
could  of  a  life  that  is  new  to  them.  They  were  from 
distant  island  possessions,  from  remote  frontiers, 
from  the  centres  of  civilization,  all  dressed  in  some 
modification  of  the  latest  fashion,  mostly  intelligent, 
often  college-bred  and  widely  traveled.  Many  of 

[131] 


them  were  wives  of  the  men  who  largely  control  the 
destinies  of  this  country,  others  were  visitors  eager 
to  see  and  know  everything.  Two  dusky  Hawaiians 
were  examining  the  Japanese  carvings  with  the  dis- 
crimination of  connoisseurs,  and  praising  the  taste  of 
the  hostess. 

"It  was  a  cosmopolitan  company  and  this  is  the 
charm  of  the  life  here,  though  it  has  its  reverse  side. 
Possibly  it  is  not  sufficiently  homogeneous.  You  are 
always  skimming  the  surface  of  things.  The  inter- 
ests are  too  diverse  except  in  limited  coteries,  and  I 
fancy  these  are  outside  of  official  life,  which  must  of 
necessity  be  essentially  democratic. 

"But  everything  is  rose-colored  to  me.  There  is 
infinite  interest  in  the  diversity.  It  will  be  a  pleasant 
experience  to  talk  over  when  I  get  home.  Salient 
points  come  out  more  vividly  in  perspective." 

"January  14,  1910. 

"My  dear  N.:  Last  night  the  MacVeaghs  gave  a 
dinner  in  honor  of  the  President  and  Mrs.  Taft.  That 
it  was  a  brilliant  affair,  it  is  needless  to  say.  There 
were  twenty-six  guests.  The  table  was  a  dream  of 
flowers — Killarney  roses  and  sweet  peas — with  deli- 
cate appointments  of  daintily  wrought  silver  and 
gold,  rare  porcelain,  and  historic  glass.  The  com- 
pany was  a  notable  one  and  the  shimmer  of  soft  color 
in  the  dress  of  pretty  women  added  to  the  glamour 
of  subtle  distinction  that  hung  over  it.  Among  the 
guests  were  Baron  Hengelmuller,  the  Austrian  Am- 


bassador,  and  his  accomplished  wife,  a  woman  of  fine 
presence,  agreeable  personality,  and  the  sort  of  avail- 
able intelligence  that  long  contact  with  the  great 
world  always  gives;  the  French  Ambassador  and 
Madame  Jusserand,  the  first  a  scholar  and  eminent 
man  of  letters,  as  well  as  a  distinguished  diplomat, 
the  latter  a  woman  of  great  refinement,  delicate 
tastes,  and  the  simplicity  of  one  to  the  manner  born; 
the  Japanese  Ambassador  and  his  wife,  the  Baroness 
Uchida,  a  dainty,  elegant  woman,  slender  and  grace- 
ful, a  graduate  of  Bryn  Mawr,  with  a  clear,  flexible 
intellect  and  perfect  command  of  English — an  ideal 
wife  for  a  diplomat.  She  is  young,  but  has  had  two 
years'  experience  in  diplomatic  life  at  Vienna,  besides 
a  previous  term  in  China,  and  this  has  not  spoiled 
her  natural  simplicity  and  her  unconscious  naivete. 
The  Greek  minister,  who  took  me  out  to  dinner,  is  a 
charming  man  of  the  world,  with  the  soul  of  a  Greek 
and  the  spirit  of  a  Parisian.  The  mingled  romance 
and  cleverness  of  Southern  Europe  were  represented 
in  the  Portuguese  Minister,  who  has  the  ready  wit 
and  the  sentiment  of  his  race.  It  is  this  blending  of 
cultured  nationalities  which  gives  so  distinctive  a 
tone  to  Washington  society. 

"Then  there  was  Mrs.  Potter  Palmer,  with  her 
beautiful  pale  face,  graceful  figure,  gracious  manners, 
and  faultless  setting,  the  embodiment  of  American 
efficiency  and  American  spirit,  softened  and  refined 
by  old-world  culture;  Robert  Lincoln,  reflecting  the 

[133] 


glories  of  his  martyred  father;  Mrs.  Dexter,  with  her 
air  of  breezy  worldliness  and  fresh  enthusiasm;  Mrs. 
Norman  Williams,  Emily's  cousin,  who  has  emerged 
from  a  life  of  invalidism,  and  blossomed  into  a  stately, 
white-haired  woman  with  much  of  the  delicate,  classic 
loveliness  of  her  youth.  There  were  others,  too,  men 
and  women  of  clever  intellects  and  agreeable  man- 
ners, with  traditions  behind  them  and  some,  at  least, 
with  careers  before  them — people  representing  var- 
ious sides  of  this  wonderful  American  life.  I  was 
specially  interested  in  Mrs.  Norton  and  her  clever 
young  husband,  the  assistant  secretary  of  the  treas- 
ury. She  is  the  very  agreeable  grand-daughter  of 
William  Loyd  Garrison,  and  her  father  who  recently 
died  was  for  many  years  the  able  editor  of  the  Nation 
and  one  of  the  few  really  critical  thinkers  of  the 
country.  The  President  has  a  genial  face  with  a  per- 
ennial smile,  and  simple,  cordial  manners.  Mrs.  Taft 
is  unable  to  go  out,  so  her  sister,  Mrs.  Anderson,  a 
gracious,  silver-haired  lady,  represented  her.  I  have 
heard  a  great  deal  about  the  dullness  of  official  din- 
ners, but  there  was  not  a  dull  moment  last  night. 
The  conversation  was  varied,  often  brilliant,  and 
always  interesting. 

"This  morning  I  went  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Waller 
and  Eames  to  hear  the  President's  message  in  reply 
to  Pinchot  read  in  the  House  of  Representatives. 
You  would  be  amazed  at  the  rudeness  of  this  sup- 
posedly dignified  body.  Many  deliberately  turned 


their  backs  and  buried  themselves  in  their  morning 
papers.  Others  sat  about  in  groups  chatting  audibly. 
Few  listened  at  all  and  everybody  seemed  ready  to 
yawn.  We  were  told  that  it  was  needless  to  listen, 
as  they  all  knew  just  how  they  were  going  to  vote, 
whatever  might  be  said.  Then  why  read  a  message 
which  no  one  listens  to?  It  seems  quite  superfluous. 
As  we  could  not  hear  a  word  in  the  confusion  and 
buzz  of  voices,  we  left  in  despair  and  went  into  the 
supreme  court  room  where  the  venerable  judges,  in 
the  added  dignity  of  voluminous  gowns,  were  listen- 
ing to  a  plea  of  Senator  Foraker  in  some  celebrated 
case.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  an  imposing  costume. 
It  appeals  to  the  imagination.  I  am  sure  we  shall 
get  back  in  time  to  powdered  wigs  and  scarlet  gowns. 
They  are  far  more  impressive  than  a  simple  black 
suit,  and  to  be  impressive  is  a  long  way  towards 
being  convincing.  Half  the  dignity  and  power  of  the 
Roman  Senator  lay  in  the  ample  drapery  of  the  toga. 
Going  back  to  barbarism,  is  it?  Well,  I  am  beginning 
to  think  that  reason  takes  us  further  in  that  direction 
than  imagination,  because  the  greater  part  of  the 
world  never  reasons  at  all  and  is  only  swept  on  by 
the  emotions  which  cling  to  symbols.  But,  to  return, 
the  Justices  listened  with  attention,  which  is  more 
than  the  ungowned  representatives  of  a  free  people 
did.  Whatever  wisdom  and  insight  it  may  have,  evi- 
dently our  Congress  is  not  a  school  for  good  manners. 
Perhaps  it  has  a  code  for  itself. 


"We  lunched  at  the  New  Willard  and  talked  things 
over.  In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Waller  drove  with  Mrs. 
Patterson,  and  I  went  out  with  Emily  to  pay  a  few 
visits.  At  the  White  House  Mrs.  Anderson  was  re- 
ceiving for  her  sister,  Mrs.  Taft.  Among  those  we 
met  there  was  Miss  Mabel  Boardman,  who  was  in- 
troduced as  "the  only  lady  in  Washington,  really 
doing  anything."  She  devotes  herself  to  the  Red  Cross 
Society,  you  know,  of  which  she  is  president.  I  heard 
her  make  a  strong  plea  for  it  in  Chicago.  She  speaks 
directly  and  to  the  point,  winning  favor  by  her  agree- 
able personality  and  charming  manners. 

"W7e  met  an  interesting  group  at  the  British  Em- 
bassy. The  main  business  of  life  here  during  the 
season,  at  least  for  women,  is  to  go  and  see  people, 
so  you  are  sure  to  meet  the  same  ones  over  and  over 
again.  Mrs.  Bryce  is  a  woman  of  great  simplicity 
and  refinement.  I  met  her  in  Chicago,  together  with 
her  distinguished  husband,  who  knows  us  as  a  nation 
a  great  deal  better  than  we  know  ourselves.  It  needs 
a  perspective  to  judge  things  or  people  correctly. 
Then  he  has  rare  knowledge  and  insight  which  give 
him  a  sort  of  sixth  sense  that  is  not  common  even 
among  historians.  I  wonder  if  he  would  say  the 
same  things  of  us  today  that  he  did  twenty  years 
ago!  The  scenes  have  shifted  and  everything  is 
changing.  Who  knows  where  a  new  path  is  going  to 
lead?  Doing  as  they  like  is  not  turning  people  into 
saints.  I  am  afraid  it  is  much  more  likely  to  make 

[136] 


sinners  of  them.  Of  course  that  is  heresy.  But  we 
did  not  discuss  such  grave  questions.  Society,  you 
know,  smiles  upon  the  art  of  saying  nothing  grace- 
fully. 

"In  the  evening  we  sat  in  the  lovely  drawing-room 
and  chatted  more  seriously  of  people  and  things. 
There  is  a  great  deal  to  talk  about  here  if  one  is 
alive,  and  Emily  is  always  alive.  You  see  history  in 
the  making  and  wonder  how  it  will  present  itself  a 
hundred  years  hence." 

"Washington,  January  15,  1910. 

"My  dear  N. :  This  morning  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  Mr.  Hitchcock,  the  postmaster  general,  a 
comparatively  young  man  and  a  bachelor,  who  is 
very  much  talked  of  and,  I  should  say,  little  known. 
He  has  a  strong,  serious  face,  and  is  a  man  of  few 
words  who  evidently  thinks  a  great  deal  more  than 
he  talks.  Indeed,  he  is  a  veritable  sphynx  in  his  way, 
though  direct  and  far-seeing,  as  well  as  prompt  and 
decisive  in  action.  Such  men  interest  you,  as  you 
are  always  in  doubt  as  to  what  is  behind  that  reserved 
exterior,  and  piqued  because  you  cannot  find  out.  I 
wonder  how  men  in  public  life  dare  talk  at  all,  they 
are  so  misjudged  and  misquoted.  I  was  never  more 
struck  with  the  wisdom  of  Talleyrand's  saying  that 
'language  was  made  to  conceal  thought.'  But  it  is 
necessary  to  know  how  to  use  it  for  that  purpose. 
It  is  better  to  say  nothing  than  too  much. 

"The  conversation  this  morning,  however,  ran  on 

1137] 


safe  and  interesting  lines  of  more  or  less  personal 
flavor.  The  man  in  public  service  must  have  two 
lives,  one  his  own,  the  other  the  world's.  Of  these, 
the  first  is  the  more  sincere — unless  one  is  theatrically 
inclined — hence  the  more  interesting.  But,  in  time, 
the  two  get  inextricably  mixed  and  the  world  rarely 
discriminates  between  them.  All  this  is  a  propos  of 
the  postmaster  general  with  his  hidden  potentialities, 
which  only  the  future  will  reveal.  He  has  two  or 
three  requisites  of  a  party  leader  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  more.  At  least  he  is  elusive,  and  he  makes 
extraordinarily  safe  replies  to  whatever  opinion  you 
venture  to  express. 

"Later  the  Wallers  left  for  Chicago,  much  to  my 
regret,  as  they  are  agreeable  and  sympathetic  people. 
In  the  afternoon  I  went  with  Emily  to  three  recep- 
tions. Of  course  you  never  get  much  below  the  sur- 
face of  any  one  or  any  thing,  but  what  is  society 
except  the  contact  of  agreeable  surfaces?  Where  it 
is  the  main  business  of  life  there  is  no  time  for  any- 
thing else.  As  a  pageant,  or  diversion,  it  is  charm- 
ing. It  is  needless  to  repeat  that  I  am  having  a 
'delicious'  time.  Isn't  that  the  right  adjective  for 
it?" 

"Washington,  January  18,  1910. 

"My  dear  N.:  The  days  are  astonishingly  alike, 
with  a  thousand  shades  and  variations.  That  is  pre- 
cisely what  life  is  here,  at  least  socially — a  matter  of 
shades  and  variations.  Nothing  tremendous  happens, 


but  the  difference  between  Mrs.  A's  dinner  and  Mrs. 
B's  is  vital.  With  the  same  elegance  of  appointments, 
the  same  perfection  of  service,  the  shading  lies  in  the 
composition  of  the  guests.  There  are  brilliant  pos- 
sibilities here  for  a  genuine  society  that  is  much  more 
than  an  assemblage  of  people.  Only  the  divining 
spirit  is  needed.  But  in  a  commercial  society  there 
are  difficulties. 

"We  called  on  Sunday  to  see  a  lady  who  is  just 
starting  for  Egypt.  Change  of  scene  is  required. 
The  young  ladies  are  inexpressibly  bored  at  the  pros- 
pect. They  have  seen  it  all  before.  But  the  little 
attaching  social  threads  are  to  be  broken  off,  perhaps 
some  growing  interest  nipped  in  the  bud  for  the  sake 
of  looking  at  the  familiar  sphynx,  or  climbing  the 
pyramids,  or  sailing  up  the  Nile,  always  in  a  crowd 
of  people  who  are  expected  in  some  way  to  bring  a 
new  sensation  into  life.  This  generation  is  always 
moving  horizontally — it  cannot  stay  long  enough 
anywhere  to  go  up,  or  to  go  down,  in  search  of  any- 
thing worth  while.  One  gets  so  tired  of  the  eternally 
obvious —  that  is,  I  do.  If  other  people  did  they  would 
stay  at  home  with  their  thoughts  once  in  a  while. 

"Pardon  this  moralizing  vein  and  let  me  tell  you 
about  an  interesting  house  with  enough  rare  and  cur- 
ious things  in  it  to  stock  a  museum.  We  drove  there 
from  the  M's.  There  were  a  few  people  chatting  over 
the  tea-table,  but  we  soon  left  them  and  went  into 
a  beautiful  little  chapel  with  an  old  Spanish  altar — 


the  pictures  and  carvings  taken  from  Spanish  churches, 
the  work  of  mediaeval  and  renaissance  artists. 
Overhead  was  a  genuine  Andrea  del  Sarto.  The  soft 
light  stealing  through  the  tinted  glass  cast  a  tender 
glow  over  the  old  religious  paintings,  creating  an  at- 
mosphere which  tempts  one  to  kneel  in  reverence  as 
before  something  unseen  and  mystical.  The  chapel 
has  not  been  consecrated,  perhaps  through  some 
vague  feeling  that  the  spirit  of  curiosity  or  frivolity 
so  often  met  there  might  not  quite  accord  with  the 
reverent  spirit  of  prayer  which  the  altar  suggests. 
After  all,  there  is  not  much  connection  between 
prayer  and  intellectual  or  artistic  analysis. 

"I  wish  I  could  describe  to  you  the  effect  of  this  bit 
of  mediaeval  life  set  down  in  the  midst  of  such  intense 
modernism.  There  are  pictures  of  various  eras  and 
countries,  rare  tapestries,  exquisitely  carved  ivories, 
curiosities  of  the  Orient,  relics  of  classic  times,  artis- 
tic glories  of  the  Renaissance,  a  thousand  beautiful 
things  from  every  clime — all  crowded  into  a  space 
too  narrow  for  an  effective  setting.  One's  thoughts 
are  confused  by  the  variety. 

"All  this  appeals  to  Emily  who,  you  know,  has  the 
keen  instinct  of  the  collector  and  has  brought  so 
many  things  from  every  country  to  add  to  the  beauty 
of  her  own  home.  But  she  never  crowds  them,  and 
each  bit  of  exquisite  carving  or  color  stands  out  in 
stronger  relief  for  its  ampler  space  and  setting.  This 
also  gives  a  finer  sense  of  harmony  and  repose. 

[  140] 


'Yesterday  there  was  to  be  a  reception  at  the 
Swedish  Minister's,  but  it  was  deferred  on  account 
of  the  sudden  death  of  one  of  the  diplomats.  In  the 
evening  there  was  a  brilliant  affair  at  the  Hays- 
Hammonds'  of  South  African  fame,  then  a  reception 
at  Miss  Boardman's  for  the  governors,  senators,  and 
other  officials  interested  in  the  conservation  of  re- 
sources. It  was  an  important  occasion,  far-reaching 
in  its  scope,  but  it  poured  so  that  we  decided  to  stay 
at  home  and  pass  a  quiet  evening  by  ourselves.  A 
little  pause  in  the  rush  is  refreshing.  But  there  really 
is  no  pause.  You  are  always  talking  about  the  next 
affair — or  the  last  one.  It  is  all  very  delightful — 
fresh  glimpses  of  life,  new  perspectives,  with  really 
serious,  vital  things  in  the  horizon  and  the  outside 
of  many  charming  people — pardon  that  over-worked 
adjective  which  means  about  as  much  as  'nice,'  and 
is  so  conveniently  neutral." 

"Washington,  January  19,  1910. 

"My  dear  N.:  Last  night  we  went  to  the  judicial 
reception  at  the  White  House.  It  was  a  brilliant 
pageant — beautiful  women,  beautiful  gowns,  white- 
haired  men  who  have  lived,  young  men  whose  lives 
are  just  beginning — a  moving  mass  of  light  and  color 
in  a  historic  setting.  I  stood  in  the  Blue  Room,  which 
was  set  apart  for  the  presidential  party,  the  cabinet 
and  their  guests,  the  diplomatic  corps,  and  the  judges. 
Emily  of  course  was  in  the  receiving  line,  and  was 
resplendent  in  white  velvet  and  jewels.  I  looked  on 


and  chatted  with  those  I  knew,  as  the  people  filed 
past  for  two  long  hours.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  the  noted  men  and  women  who  have  come  and 
gone  through  these  rooms — statesmen  and  politi- 
cians, patriots  and  schemers,  women  beautiful  and 
gracious,  women  sordid  and  worldly — all  passed  from 
the  scene,  some  looking  down  from  the  frames  on  the 
walls,  others  sunk  into  oblivion.  But  one  hardly 
thinks  in  such  a  scene;  things  come  to  one  in  flashes 
and  pass.  You  are  diverted  by  a  new  face,  or  the 
inscrutable  eyes  of  some  one  whose  word  may  control 
thousands  of  human  destinies.  After  all,  the  lights, 
the  music,  the  trappings,  are  uppermost.  These  cast 
a  glamour  over  the  tremendous  seriousness  of  the 
life  that  underlies  them.  One  does  not  enjoy  a  thing 
the  less  because  one  has  glimpses  of  vast  perspectives 
behind  it. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  see  Secretary  MacVeagh,  with 
his  keen,  thoughtful  face  and  cordial  smile,  moving 
about  in  an  atmosphere  so  congenial  to  him.  The 
life  here  suits  him,  and  the  work  as  well.  He  has 
grown  years  younger  in  spite  of  the  strain  of  his 
responsible  position.  The  only  fear  I  have  is  that  he 
will  wear  out  before  his  time,  as  he  gives  himself  no 
rest.  He  is  a  man  of  fine  ideals,  you  know,  and  so 
conscientious  in  the  pursuit  of  them  that  he  forgets 
there  are  human  limitations  in  the  pursuit  of  any- 
thing. The  world  is  full  of  delicate  problems  today, 
for  a  man  in  official  life  who  is  struggling  with  cor- 


rupt  forces,  and  trying  to  infuse  into  politics  a  spirit 
of  integrity  which  is  clearly  foreign  to  it. 

"I  was  tired  and  slept  this  morning,  but  this  after- 
noon was  given  to  Emily's  reception,  and  the  rooms 
were  crowded — many  interesting  people  and  many 
unusual  ones  shining  with  reflected  light.  After  the 
throng  had  passed,  a  little  group  gathered  about  the 
tea-table  and  chatted  pleasantly.  A  clever  young 
diplomat  from  southern  Europe  made  the  astonish- 
ing assertion  that  we  'have  no  poetry  because  we 
have  no  love.'  I  took  issue  with  him.  Compare  our 
great  English  poets  with  those  of  any  southern  coun- 
try where  love  is  a  thing  that  flames  up  and  goes  out! 
But  the  southern  races  do  not  understand  a  love  that 
is  fed  from  spiritual  sources  and  lasts.  When  the  love 
which  they  call  an  inspiration  goes  out,  their  poets 
a  la  Petrarch  make  it  a  thing  of  the  imagination  and 
burn  poetic  incense  to  an  ideal.  Our  great  poetry  is 
not  always  inspired  by  love.  In  the  romantic  South 
there  seems  to  be  nothing  else  worth  writing  about. 
And  what  a  travesty  it  often  is!  But,  after  all,  it  is 
true  that  poetry  does  not  thrive  in  our  age  and  cli- 
mate. For  the  same  reasons,  perhaps,  love  is  no 
longer  supreme.  The  imagination  that  creates  the 
one,  gives  life  to  the  other.  This  atmosphere  is  cer- 
tainly fatal  to  sentiment  which  demands  more  repose. 

"  But  the  spirit  is  not  dead.  If  you  think  so  go  and 
see  St.  Gaudens's  monument  to  Mrs.  Adams  in  the 
Rock  Creek  Cemeter.  It  is  marvelous.  Infinite 


grief  in  eternal  silence.  I  went  alone  on  a  sombre 
day  when  the  majestic  figure  stood  out  in  gray  relief 
against  its  bare  and  wintry  setting.  The  weird  fasci- 
nation of  the  impenetrable  face  held  me  spellbound 
and  I  turned  back  again  and  again,  unable  to  tear 
myself  away  from  this  unsolved  riddle  with  its  mys- 
tery of  love  and  death." 

"Washington,  January  28,  1910. 

"My  dear  N.:  I  have  been  doing  all  sorts  of  pleas- 
ant things  since  writing  you  last.  They  were  of  the 
same  order,  with  shades  of  difference.  The  most  con- 
siderable affair  as  to  numbers  was  the  reception  for 
the  senators.  Imagine  three  thousand  people  crowd- 
ed into  rooms  that  might  reasonably  hold  one  thou- 
sand, and  you  have  the  result.  Brilliant,  of  course, 
but  so  much  has  to  be  left  to  the  imagination  when 
you  cannot  move.  Mrs.  Taft  has  shown  admirable 
tact  this  year  in  arranging  the  White  House  Recep- 
tions so  that  people  are  not  packed  like  sardines. 
But  democracy  complains  that  it  is  democracy  no 
more  when  five,  ten,  twenty  thousand  people — the 
number  to  be  indefinitely  extended — cannot  occupy 
the  same  space  at  the  same  time.  What  slaves  we 
are  to  a  catchword  that  tries  to  reverse  the  laws  of 
nature. 

"The  MacVeaghs  went  to  New  York  a  few  days 
ago,  for  a  series  of  banquets  that  would  have  cast 
into  the  shade  the  feasts  of  Lucullus.  Talk  about 
republican  simplicity!  Roman  luxury  pales  in  com- 
parison. 

[H4] 


V** 

" 


"  ...    £  ...,,...„--':  g  '-.-»..      '•:   te 


•"<U       ^"  '  :  v- 


"While  they  were  gone  I  paid  a  few  visits  on  my 
own  account.  Among  other  pleasant  things  I  took 
luncheon  with  Mrs.  Pullman  at  the  Arlington,  where 
she  is  staying.  In  spite  of  her  illness  she  looks  as 
fresh  and  young  as  ever. 

"Last  night  the  MacVeaghs  gave  a  dinner  to  Car- 
dinal Gibbons,  which  was  a  brilliant  affair.  The  Car- 
dinal is  a  typical  Roman  ecclesiastic  of  the  best  order 
— gracious,  cultured,  winning,  tactful,  keenly  observ- 
ing, and  powerful  through  the  concentration  of  all 
his  gifts,  complex  as  they  are,  on  a  single  end.  In 
appearance  he  is  a  small  man  who  gives  the  impres- 
sion of  a  large  one.  His  clear,  penetrating  eye  seems 
to  read  the  secrets  of  your  soul.  You  instinctively 
feel  that  he  was  born  to  influence  men  and  move- 
ments through  his  gentle  persuasiveness.  The  chan- 
cellor, his  secretary,  who  came  with  him,  is  simpler 
and  less  of  the  world,  but  inspired  by  the  same  devo- 
tion to  a  great  purpose.  I  talked  with  him  a  good 
deal,  as  we  found  Roman  friends  in  common,  and  I 
was  much  interested  in  his  attitude  towards  modern 
innovations.  It  is  curious  to  touch  the  point  of  view 
of  people  who  seem  so  remote  from  the  new  life,  yet 
consider  themselves  at  the  centre  of  things.  It  is 
astonishing,  too — the  extent  to  which  they  make 
themselves  the  centre  of  things,  while  we  others 
move  our  centre  of  gravity  so  often  that  we  forget 
we  have  any,  and  I  am  not  sure  we  have.  Every- 
thing is  on  a  sliding  scale,  and  now  we  have  a  prag- 


matic  philosophy  to  suit — the  philosophy  of  sliding 
scales,  which  is  a  convenient  theory,  as  it  gives  a 
certain  dignity  to  our  changing  ideals.  Truth?  Ah! 
that  is  another  matter. 

"But,  to  return  to  the  dinner.  Among  the  guests 
was  Mrs.  Jack  Gardner  of  Boston — a  small,  fair, 
delicate  woman  with  penetrating  blue  eyes  and  a 
subtle  smile  that  can  be  winning  when  she  chooses. 
With  a  flexible  intellect,  keen  observation,  and  the 
American  genius  for  adapting  means  to  ends,  she 
combines  the  taste  of  a  connoisseur,  the  passion  of 
a  collector,  and  the  indefatigable  zeal  of  the  enthu- 
siast. I  find  her  interesting  and  curiously  elusive. 

"Then  there  was  the  Postmaster  General  with  his 
impenetrable  face  and  air  of  reserved  force;  the  Sec- 
retary of  the  Navy  and  Mrs.  Meyer,  the  latter  with 
a  distinct  air  of  high  breeding — a  bit  cold,  perhaps, 
and  dignified  as  befits  her  position;  Professor  Scho- 
field  of  Harvard  who,  you  will  remember,  gave  the 
International  course  of  lectures  at  Berlin  two  or  three 
years  ago,  and  his  wife,  who  was  the  fascinating 
Mrs.  Cheney  of  Boston.  She  has  a  lovely  country 
house  near  Dublin,  where  I  first  met  her.  As  he  is 
young,  brilliant,  and  handsome,  the  marriage  seems 
an  ideal  one.  They  are  always  interesting  guests. 
Then  there  was  Judge  William  J.  Calhoun,  the  new 
Minister  to  China,  with  his  clever  wife  who  is  so  well 
known  in  Chicago. 

"But  I  need  not  extend  the  list,  which  included 


statesmen,  prelates,  scholars,  diplomats,  women  of 
fashion  and  women  of  intellect,  with  a  sprinkling  of 
literature  to  season  the  talk  that  ranged  from  the 
gossip  of  the  hour  to  the  highest  themes,  from  spark- 
ling repartee  to  the  most  serious  problems. 

"The  people  were  diverse  and  interesting,  but  so- 
cially everything  lies  in  the  blending  and  proportion. 
Here  it  is  the  talent  of  the  hostess  which  counts,  and 
here  Emily  shows  herself  an  accomplished  woman  of 
the  world.  In  a  country  where  the  social  strata  di- 
vide themselves  more  and  more  into  lateral  sections 
with  money  on  top,  and  intrinsic  culture — there  is  a 
great  deal  of  veneering,  you  know — buried  in  some 
forgotten  stratum  below,  the  mission  of  the  hostess 
is  to  blend  various  types  so  as  to  prevent  conversa- 
tion from  becoming  a  lost  art.  The  material  is  here 
but  it  has  to  be  fitted  and  it  is  her  delight  to  do  this. 
Besides,  this  is  not  a  commercial  city.  That  is  why 
it  is  so  fascinating." 

"Washington,  January  31,  1910. 

"My  dear  N.:  Yesterday  I  went  to  a  luncheon  at 
Miss  Scidmore's.  You  remember  her — the  woman 
who  has  written  so  well  of  India,  Japan,  China,  and 
the  Orient  generally.  Her  house  speaks  to  one,  in 
every  nook  and  corner,  of  the  mysterious  East. 
Relics  of  Oriental  art  give  a  distinctive  character  to 
the  rooms,  which  are  quite  simple.  The  Japanese 
Ambassador  and  his  charming  wife  added  to  the 
illusion.  The  company  was  small  but  interesting. 

[147] 


Among  others  was  Frank  Millet,  the  artist.  Every 
one  had  some  definite  purpose  in  life  which  gave  a 
tone  of  earnestness  to  the  conversation  that  was  not 
too  serious.  Miss  Scidmore  is  herself  a  woman  of 
keen  vision  and  broad  interests — forceful,  sincere, 
buoyant,  and  quite  apart  from  the  rushing  crowd, 
though  more  or  less  in  it.  One  cannot  absorb  the 
spirit  of  the  Orient  without  bringing  a  new  note  into 
conversation,  but  she  had  evidently  studied  it  in 
modern  fashion  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  observer 
rather  than  as  an  interpreter  of  its  mysteries. 

"After  a  pleasant  chat,  enlivened  by  some  curious 
anecdotes  naively  told  by  the  Baroness  Uchida,  we 
took  leave  and  drove  to  see  the  lovely  Mrs.  Beveridge. 
She  retains  all  the  high-bred  charm  of  Catherine 
Eddy,  with  the  added  dignity  of  the  young  matron. 
I  don't  wonder  that  Senator  Beveridge  fell  in  love 
with  her.  He  ought  to  keep  her  always  on  a  pedestal 
and  offer  her  the  rarest  incense. 

"Another  call  on  a  would-be  grande  dame  who  has 
the  pose  and  the  luxurious  setting  without  the  qual- 
ity, ended  a  day  that  was  full  of  interest.  People 
are  like  old  and  new  wines.  It  often  takes  a  con- 
noisseur to  detect  the  finest  flavor." 

But  my  letters  grew  personal  or  ceased,  and  my 
visit,  like  all  pleasant  things,  drew  to  an  end.  On 
the  last  Sunday  afternoon  I  recall  an  agreeable  and 
reminiscent  talk  with  Horace  White,  long-time  editor 
of  the  New  York  Evening  Post  when  the  great  talent 

[148] 


of  the  country  was  to  be  found  in  its  pages,  but  now 
retired  from  active  life  and  devoting  himself  to  a  mem- 
oir of  Senator  Trumbull.  This  takes  him  through  a 
stormy  period  and  he  is  here  to  consult  the  records 
in  the  magnificently-housed  Congressional  Library. 
I  remember  him  as  a  small,  dark-eyed,  wiry  man  of 
the  keenest  observation  and  a  marvelous  talent  for 
making  talents  available — a  gift  in  itself,  the  gift  of 
success.  His  comments  on  the  political  situation  were 
concise  and  to  the  point.  I  think  he  enjoys  browsing 
in  more  quiet  fields.  Senator  Beveridge  came  in  later 
with  his  buoyant  enthusiasm  and  magnetic  person- 
ality, striking  a  distinctly  modern  note.  I  wondered 
how  his  political  ambitions  would  fare  between  the 
Insurgents  whom  he  represents  and  the  Conserva~ 
tives  with  whom  he  cannot  quite  afford  to  break. 
But  he  looks  the  world  confidently  in  the  face,  firm 
in  his  convictions  that  he  is  in  the  right. 

There  was  a  word  here  and  a  word  there,  straws 
that  pointed  the  way  the  political  wind  was  blowing. 
Others,  too,  drifted  in  from  the  world  of  fashion,  with 
the  latest  gossip,  a  fresh  bon  mot^  and  a  suggestion  of 
the  "tyranny  of  clothes."  Emily  enjoys  holding  the 
threads  of  various  interests,  and  creating  an  "atmos- 
phere" she  likes  in  the  life  about  her. 

But  after  all  it  is  life  that  we  want,  and  society 
largely  reflects  that  which  exists  at  the  moment.  It 
is  an  eternal  compromise  between  the  ideals  that  we 
cherish  and  the  realities  among  which  we  live. 

[H9] 


XVII 

I  HAVE  already  spoken  of  Emily's  passion  for  de- 
signing and  furnishing  houses.  It  was  a  way  she 
had  of  expressing  herself.  In  her  new  position  her 
vivid  imagination  saw  great  possibilities  of  realizing 
her  dream  of  a  modern  salon.  But  first  she  would 
have  a  suitable  setting.  While  she  felt  the  need  of  a 
house  better  adapted  to  the  social  duties  of  her  hus- 
band's official  life,  she  was  unwilling  to  add  to  his 
cares,  so  the  land  was  bought  and  the  palatial  man- 
sion begun  and  completed  under  her  direction  before 
he  knew  it  was  even  planned.  He  saw  it  rise  before 
him  as  the  supposed  possession  of  another.  It  was 
a  colossal  undertaking  and  Emily's  health  was  un- 
certain, but  her  energy  never  flagged.  Her  past 
experience  had  given  her  a  mastery  of  details  that 
enabled  her,  alone  and  unaided  save  by  architect  and 
builder,  to  follow  every  step  of  the  work  on  its  busi- 
ness as  well  as  its  artistic  side. 

This  house  was  the  centre  of  Emily's  social  activ- 
ities during  the  next  two  or  three  years,  which  marked 
the  culmination  of  her  crowded  and  efficient  life.  I 
have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  brilliant  groups 
gathered  there  on  my  last  visit  in  the  spring  of  191 1. 

[150] 


They  included  diplomats  of  world-wide  fame,  sena- 
tors and  representatives  who  stood  for  the  best  in 
American  political  life,  cabinet  ministers  with  notable 
records,  men  of  science,  men  and  women  of  letters, 
artists,  and  many  from  the  gay  world  of  forms  and 
amenities  who  cast  a  light  glamour  of  fashion  over  a 
serious  and  cosmopolitan  society. 

Among  the  noted  guests  often  met  here  was  the 
British  Ambassador,  Mr.  (now  Lord)  Bryce,  whose 
clear  vision  has  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  demo- 
cratic institutions  and  thrown  a  vivid  light  on  the 
great  problems  that  are  shaking  the  world  today. 
A  frequent  visitor,  too,  was  the  French  Ambassador, 
M.  Jusserand,  keen  and  alert,  scholar  as  well  as  dip- 
lomat, who  touched  upon  literary  and  political  ques- 
tions with  a  Frenchman's  ready  wit.  There  were 
many  others  whom  I  have  not  the  space  to  name. 
Men  who  denounced  each  other  in  no  mild  terms  on 
the  floor  of  the  Senate,  conversed  amicably  at  this 
liberal  dinner  table.  A  witty  lawyer  exchanged  spicy 
badinage  with  a  brilliant  journalist.  The  conservative 
joined  hands  with  the  radical.  The  Republican 
statesman  looked  askance  at  the  Democratic  poli- 
tician and  measured  wits  with  him.  Women  talked 
or  tempered  the  talk,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  bril- 
liancy was  not  wanting.  Literature  was  touched 
lightly  in  passing.  The  Moderns  sent  the  Victorians 
to  preside  over  Sunday-schools  in  the  provinces,  and 
the  Victorians  congratulated  the  Moderns  on  having 


Sunday-schools  as  a  preparatory  discipline  when 
their  jaded  senses  turned  heavenward.  All  this  and 
much  more  they  might  have  said.  It  was  in  the  air. 

The  setting  was  brilliant.  The  atmosphere  was 
fragrant  with  the  art  of  the  ages.  At  intervals  the 
rich,  soft  tones  of  a  fine  organ  sounded  through  the 
rooms,  while  a  distant  echo  from  a  second  organ  far 
above  floated  down  the  spacious  stairways  and 
hushed  for  a  moment  the  hum  of  voices. 

These  gatherings  included  a  wide  range  of  taste 
and  talent.  They  had  much  of  the  quality  of  a  liter- 
ary salon  on  democratic  lines. 

In  the  spring  of  1912  Emily  went  to  Europe  for 
a  much  needed  change  of  scene,  and  for  rest  from 
her  absorbing  duties.  In  a  letter  from  Paris  dated 
June  seventh,  she  writes: 

"My  dear  friend:  Franklin  wrote  you  I  came 
away  an  invalid  after  nearly  five  weeks  in  my  bed- 
room, that  only  a  week  before  sailing  we  had  a  pas- 
sage on  the  Titanic,  and  that  when  she  met  her  tragic 
fate  we  came  on  the  Kaiser  Wilhelm  II.  ...  I 
needed  the  change  and  to  get  away  from  political 
excitement,  as  I  was  in  the  midst  of  it.  I  may  return 
with  Eames  in  August;  if  not  then,  in  October.  It 
depends  upon  how  my  strength  revives.  I  have  done 
exactly  what  I  needed  here,  come  into  new  scenes, 
which  I  am  enjoying  a  great  deal.  Everybody  it 
seems  is  offering  to  entertain  us.  We  have  been  at 
all  the  functions — dinners,  luncheons,  receptions,  at 


the  American  Ambassador's,  two  charming  musicales 
and  a  dinner  at  Miss  Delia  Gurnee's,  whom  you  will 
remember  and  who  is  extremely  grande  dame  here; 
also  by  invitation  to  Grand  Opera;  and  to  the  Rus- 
sian Dancers,  equal  in  popularity  to  the  Opera;  to 
the  Theatre  Francais,  etc.  I  stay  in  by  day  to  go 
out  at  night,  but  it  is  so  different  when  you  have  no 
responsibility  yourself,  no  head  work.  .  .  . 

"I  lunched  the  other  day  with  Mrs.  Beach  and 
Frances  Keep,  and  drove  later  to  Malmaison,  that 
now  has  a  well-kept  garden  of  the  flowers  Josephine 
loved  so  much.  Napoleon's  poor,  short,  narrow  little 
iron  bed  has  just  been  brought  here.  I  forget — you 
don't  like  these  people.  Neither  do  I  very  much, 
but  they  both  lived  tragedy — poor  things! 

"I  dined  quietly  with  Mrs.  Potter  Palmer  the  other 
night.  She  is  looking  younger  and  more  beautiful 
than  ever.  I  shall  be  at  the  Ritz  Hotel,  London,  my 
address  for  June  and  July.  Possibly  later  we  may  go 
to  visit  the  Andrew  Carnegies  at  Skibo  Castle  in 
Scotland." 

This  period  she  often  spoke  of  as  "the  summer  of 
her  life."  She  had  already  been  presented  at  court 
during  the  reign  of  King  Edward  VII.  This  year 
she  had  another  presentation  at  the  court  of  King 
George  V,  of  which  she  sent  a  long  and  interesting 
account,  dwelling  upon  the  simple  personalities  of 
the  King  and  Queen.  She  was  also  invited  to  the 
State  Ball,  where  she  was  given  a  place  of  honor. 

[153] 


In  a  letter  dated  July  eleventh,  she  writes: 

"My  dear  friend:  I  was  delighted  to  get  your 
letter  of  the  eighth  and  more  than  delighted  that 
you  are  well  enough  to  go  about  so  much.  It  was 
very  pleasant  to  hear  of  Adelaide's  wedding,  and 
that  it  passed  off  so  charmingly.  I  am  very  happy  to 
know  that  you  are  writing  a  paper  for  the  Fort- 
nightly, as  I  am  sure  you  must  feel  much  stronger 
to  do  this. 

"As  for  myself  I  think  you  are  quite  right  in  say- 
ing that  I  have  not  been  resting,  but  simply  having 
a  change.  It  has  all  been  very  delightful,  but  very 
tiring,  and  I  am  still  looking  forward  to  the  future 
for  rest.  .  .  . 

"The  notices  you  sent  about  the  Presentation  are 
funny.  I  sat  in  the  Throne  Room  both  at  the  Pre- 
sentation and  at  the  State  Ball.  .  .  . 

"Eames  has  had  a  great  fling  in  London  society. 
Single  men  seem  to  be  in  demand  everywhere.  He 
came  to  London  a  few  days  ahead  of  me  to  attend 
the  Hundred  Year  Ball.  I  must  tell  you  how  beauti- 
ful it  was  some  day.  Last  Sunday  he  went  up  the 
river  with  a  large  party,  it  being  Henley  Sunday  on 
the  Thames.  It  was  a  hot  day,  so  he  and  others  of 
the  men  got  off  the  boat  twice  to  swim.  The  second 
time,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  he  collapsed, 
caught  in  an  eddy  that  knocked  out  his  breath.  He 
had  barely  time  to  call  once  feebly,  but  it  was  known 
to  be  a  dangerous  place  and  the  rescuers  are  always 


at  hand.  They  went  out  in  small  boats  and  saved 
him.  I  have  hardly  rallied  from  it  yet,  for  they  didn't 
bring  him  home  till  after  midnight. 

"Write  when  you  can.  I  expect  to  be  in  Dublin 
by  the  fourth  or  fifth  of  August.  We  are  going  to  the 
garden  party  of  the  King  and  Queen  at  Windsor, 
July  nineteenth;  to  a  dinner  to  meet  the  Prince  and 
Princess  Alexander  of  Teck — the  Queen's  brother — 
and  to  a  ball  afterwards  at  the  Reids'  on  the  fif- 
teenth." 

In  December  of  the  same  year  she  writes  from 
Washington: 

"Our  last  official  two  months  are  on — beginning 
fiercely.  Mrs.  Taft  will  do  everything  socially  she 
has  done  before.  There  never  has  been  such  beauti- 
ful entertaining  at  the  White  House  and  it  will  be  a 
long  day  before  any  one  can  take  her  place  there 
as  a  hostess,  or  his  as  a  host.  I  love  them  both 
dearly.  .  .  . 

"We  are  both  of  us  looking  forward  with  great 
enthusiasm  to  the  last  of  our  work.  If  my  heart 
doesn't  fail  me  I  shall  try  hard  in  the  spring  to  get 
back  some  of  my  strength  and  return  to  the  lovely, 
peaceful  life  of  the  quiet  citizen." 
In  January,  1913,  she  writes: 

"I  have  greatly  enjoyed  your  illustrated  copy  of 
The  Tempest  y  and  think  the  plates  lovely;  the  re- 
edited  text  I  shall  have  to  leave  to  a  less  distracted 
time.  The  other  night  during  one  of  those  long  night 


watches  which  unfortunately  come  rather  often  to 
me,  I  read  Billy,  and  think  it  a  perfect  classic.  After 
Frank  finishes  it  I  have  promised  to  lend  it  to  Mrs. 
Taft,  who  is  very  anxious  to  see  it.  She  has  a  pet 
canary  that  she  adores. 

"These  last  days  of  our  term  are  so  very  full. 
Every  one  seems  to  want  to  do  something  and  invi- 
tations come  piling  in  three  and  four  for  each  even- 
ing. It  is  very  difficult  to  get  out  of  things  without 
confessing  you  are  a  wreck.  .  .  . 

"Mrs.  Grover  Cleveland  dined  here  Friday  night, 
as  did  her  fiance.  Professor  Preston.  I  have  met 
him  several  times  and  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  I 
liked  him  very  much,  and  since  it  is  going  to  make 
her  happy  to  marry  him  I  have  nothing  to  say;  but 
I  do  wish  she  could  have  returned  here  where  she  is 
so  adored  and  where  she  would  have  had  a  position 
similar  to  Dolly  Madison's,  although  a  very  different 
kind  of  woman.  She  seems  but  little  older  than  when 
she  was  here  in  the  White  House — is  very  pretty, 
very  charming.  I  sat  but  one  from  her  at  the  dinner 
the  President  gave  her  Saturday  evening.  As  the 
different  plates  came  in  and  the  silver  that  she  hadn't 
seen  since  she  left  the  White  House  with  Mr.  Cleve- 
land, she  told  us  some  very  funny  stories  about 
them.  She  also  told  us  which  plates  were  new  in  her 
days,  which  in  the  Harrisons'.  Afterwards  Madame 
Cuyp  sang,  and  if  you  have  the  chance,  you  should 
go  to  hear  her.  She  has  the  second-best  contralto  in 


Europe,  so  beautiful  that  when  the  Queen  of  Hol- 
land heard  her  she  would  not  allow  her  own  parents 
—  though  they  were  well-born  and  well-off — to  bear 
the  expense  of  her  musical  education,  but  did  it 
herself.  Her  training  and  voice  are  perfect,  and  after 
the  furore  created  by  her  concert  in  New  York,  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  Company  wanted  to  have  her 
break  her  concert  engagements  to  sing  for  it.  This 
she  refused — but  is  to  sing  for  it  in  grand  opera  after 
her  tour  is  over  in  the  spring.  She  is  staying  now 
with  the  Netherlands'  Minister  and  his  wife, 
Madame  Loudon. 

"I  hope  you  had  a  lovely  Christmas.  We  had,  as 
it  was  the  first  day  we  have  had  with  Eames  since 
he  came.  With  very  great  love, 

"EMILY." 

It  was  one  of  Emily's  characteristic  qualities  to 
be  faithful  to  any  obligation,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
it  might  be  beyond  her  physical  strength.  She  was 
resolute  against  failure  under  any  conditions.  In  this 
spirit  she  went  through  all  of  the  numerous  social 
duties  of  her  husband's  last  official  year  in  Wash- 
ington. If  absolutely  confined  to  her  room  with 
acute  illness,  she  called  upon  her  agreeable  and  effi- 
cient friend,  Mrs.  Marshall  Field,  to  preside  at  her 
dinner  table.  Now,  as  always,  she  was  equal  to  the 
demands  upon  her. 

A  summer  at  their  country  house  in  Dublin  re- 
vived her  a  little,  but  her  strength  did  not  return. 

[157] 


In  a  letter  dated  January  10,  1914,  she  writes  a  few 
details  of  her  illness  and  adds: 

"I  only  say  this  to  you  hoping  you  may  under- 
stand how  my  miseries  of  the  flesh  make  me  another 
being,  which  I  hope  will  not  lose  me  many  friends, 
though  of  course  I  know  it  will  some.  When  one 
cannot  keep  up  one's  own  end  in  life  one  is  soon  for- 
gotten. I  don't  complain,  as  so  many  clever,  delight- 
ful and  charming  women  and  men  come  to  chat  with 
me  because  they  know  I've  lost  my  health.  I  believe 
there  are  few  capitals  in  the  world  so  enchanting  and 
so  worth  while  as  Washington — if  one  were  only 
equal  to  doing  more." 

In  May,  of  the  same  year,  she  writes: 

"I  am  glad  to  say  that  if  things  go  right,  I  shall 
be  in  Chicago  about  June  first  for  two  weeks.  I  hope 
to  be  able  to  reach  there  a  day  or  two  before,  but  if 
I  do  I  shall  only  let  you  and  my  family  know  of  it, 
as  I  have  some  very  important  business  to  attend  to, 
and  must  also  spend  time  at  the  dentist's.  'Work 
before  pleasure,'  as  you  know,  is  my  precept.  When 
that  is  over  I  hope  to  see  my  other  friends,  although 
I  am  sorry  .-to  say  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  do 
very  much.  .  .  . 

"In  looking  over  some  papers  yesterday  I  found  a 
note  of  introduction  dated  May  22,  1906,  from  you 
to  your  beloved  Edith  who  was  then  in  Berlin.  It 
was  not  presented  as  we  failed  to  go  there.  Mr. 
O'Shaughnessy  is  now  here  and  it  is  said  that  his  wife 


is  expected  soon,  when  I  shall  take  great  pleasure  in 
presenting  your  letter." 

In  June  the  promised  visit  to  Chicago  was  made 
and  I  saw  this  dear  life-long  friend  for  the  last  time. 
She  had  not  lost  her  old  enthusiasm,  but  it  was  tem- 
pered. She  had  always  adored  intellect  and  believed 
in  it  as  a  dominant  factor  in  the  best  social  life,  as  it 
had  been  in  the  days  of  the  great  French  salons  where 
academicians  were  made,  and  genius  was  petted, 
and  wit  flourished.  She  still  had  plans  for  a  literary 
salon  on  modified  lines  in  Washington  now  that  she 
was  free  from  the  political  obligations  which  inevit- 
ably make  natural  selection  on  a  purely  social  and 
intellectual  basis  impossible. 

This  had  been  her  cherished  dream — and  she  had 
to  an  eminent  degree  the  qualities  of  a  hostess  that 
made  the  success  of  the  old  salons.  Her  facile  sym- 
pathy, her  gracious  manners,  her  wide  range  of  in- 
terests, her  discrimination  in  values,  made  her  house 
always  an  attractive  centre.  She  called  about  her 
people  of  fine  distinction  in  all  departments  of  life, 
indeed  she  has  entertained  more  notable  men  and 
women  of  both  hemispheres  than  any  one  I  recall. 
This  fine  social  instinct  was  her  special  gift  and  will 
long  be  remembered  by  those  who  shared  her  gen- 
erous hospitality.  But  the  dream  free  from  limita- 
tions, as  it  pictured  itself  in  her  imagination,  was 
destined  to  remain  a  dream  and  nothing  more.  She 
did  not  live  to  realize  it.  Perhaps  it  was  impossible, 

[159] 


in  any  case,  to  revive  the  spirit  of  the  past.  The  con- 
ditions that  inspired  it  no  longer  exist.  But  it  was  a 
pleasant  dream,  and  no  one  has  so  nearly  made  it  a 
reality. 

A  letter  from  Dublin  dated  September  5,  1914, 
gives  a  glimpse  of  her  life  during  the  summer: 

"My  dear  friend:  I  believe  you  are  psychic.  The 
time  you  saw  me  in  your  dream  ill  in  bed  I  was  very 
ill.  .  .  .  But  I  won't  go  on  in  this  way.  I  only  wish 
you  to  know  that  I  have  not  been  up  to  doing  much 
either  in  the  way  of  pleasure  or  duty.  I  have  not 
been  able  to  motor  until  about  a  week  back,  and  I 
have  gone  out  but  one  evening  this  summer. 

"The  lectures  at  the  club  have  been  as  interesting 
as  they  were  at  their  highest  point  a  few  years  ago, 
but  I  have  lost  nearly  all  of  them.  I  receive  on  Mon- 
days and  we  have  had  one  or  two  luncheons  and 
dinners  at  home.  I  have  heard  some  able  men  who 
are  very  much  in  the  midst  of  things  in  Europe,  talk 
of  the  inside  of  the  war.  We  are  all  greatly  disturbed 
and  taking  it  very  keenly  here.  It  is  certainly  the 
most  barbarous  war  of  the  world  and  the  Kaiser  the 
most  wanton  ruler. 

"Eames  is  here  on  his  second  little  visit.  He  spent 
a  week  in  Newport  between,  and  there  they  do  not 
seem  to  be  feeling  in  any  strained  circumstances,  for 
he  went  every  night  to  balls  and  dinner-dances — one 
where  one  hundred  and  fifty  sat  down  to  dinner  and 
two  hundred  came  in  for  the  ball  afterwards.  Doesn't 

[160] 


I? 


it  seem  dreadful?  It  does  to  me  at  least.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  helps  or  hurts  one  to  talk  of  the 
atrocities  going  on  over  there,  but  we  are  talking 
very  much  here. 

"Carrie  Williams  has  made  the  grounds  surround- 
ing her  place  very  beautiful.  She  has  about  fifteen 
acres;  one  side  is  given  entirely  to  roads  and  paths 
leading  to  the  front  door,  and  the  other  side  she  has 
given  to  graded  terraces  with  beautiful  shrubs,  plants, 
and  flowers,  done  under  a  good  landscape  gardener. 

"The  Charles  MacVeaghs  are  here.  Fanny  has 
just  finished  her  book,  but  as  the  man  who  illus- 
trated it  is  in  France  with  all  her  plates,  and  requi- 
sitioned into  the  army,  no  one  can  tell  when  it  will 
be  published  unless  she  publishes  it  with  only  three 
illustrations.  This  I  think  she  will  not  do  for  the 
present,  as  she  has  already  paid  for  all  his  work. 

"I  am  going  on  with  my  reminiscences  and  some 
other  work  for  relaxation,  but  I  am  not  myself  doing 
good  mental  work,  although  I  have  the  most  accom- 
plished assistance.  .  .  . 

'The  only  mail  that  goes  out  before  Monday  will 
go  very  shortly,  so  I  must  say  a  loving  good-bye." 
In  another  dated  Dublin,  September  30,  1914,  she 
writes: 

"My  dear  friend:  We  are  all  so  wrapped  up  in  the 
war  which  seems  to  be  getting  hotter  and  hotter, 
that  we  cannot  think  of  much  else.  Professor  Scho- 
field  and  Frank  believe  there  can  be  but  one  out- 

[161] 


come  in  the  end — that  Great  Britain  and  France  are 
sure  to  win  against  Germany. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  that  Delia  is  safely 
back.  She  is  down  at  the  North  Shore  alone  with  the 
children  in  Catherine  Beveridge's  house,  very  tired 
out,  although  she  writes  she  had  a  pleasant  voyage 
over  in  the  Mauretania  with  very  charming  people. 
But  not  a  word  of  her  own  experiences  did  she  relate. 
However,  she  had  been  in  safety  for  some  time  at  the 
Ritz  Hotel  in  London  and  in  the  midst  of  many  of 
her  Field  family  friends.  Of  course  you  know  that 
Admiral  David  Beatty  is  Ethel  Field's  husband. 

"Albertine  Drummond  has  been  very  ill,  but  is  re- 
covering now.  Mrs.  Dexter  andKatharine  McCormick 
came  on  the  same  ship  with  Delia,  but  I  have  not 
seen  them — simply  heard. 

"I  have  had  a  very  quiet  summer  with  no  guests 
in  the  house  of  my  own  except  my  physician  from 
Washington,  and  one  or  two  men  friends  of  Frank- 
lin's. Dublin  is  getting  to  be  too  much  of  a  summer 
resort  for  me,  but  happily  I  don't  have  to  see  many 
except  on  my  Mondays,  which  I  regularly  keep  up. 

"Eames  is  going  to  live  at  1400  this  winter.  I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  eventually  do  with  the  house 
— certainly  I  shall  not  sell  it  in  these  poor  times. 

"I  remember  with  pleasure  my  month  in  Chicago 
in  May  and  June  and  the  many  pleasant  things  that 
were  done  for  me,  and  especially  I  remember  the  de- 
lightful visits  we  had  together.  .  .  . 


"I  hoped  to  tell  you  that  Frank  and  I  were  likely 
to  come  to  Chicago  to  stay  possibly  until  February. 
I  did  not  want  any  one  but  you  to  know  of  it,  for  I 
know  how  very  much  I  should  have  to  stay  in  the 
house  to  keep  from  taking  cold.  I  think  society  is 
going  to  be  so  difficult  in  Washington  this  winter — 
and  different  owing  to  so  many  people  taking  sides 
with  the  diplomats  of  the  different  countries,  and  to 
orders  coming  from  those  countries  that  the  diplo- 
mats must  not  meet — that  I  felt  I  would  like  to  get 
out  of  it  all,  and  possibly  that  I  should  find  myself 
strong  enough,  with  care,  to  stand  our  cold  winter. 
But  now  my  physician  forbids  it.  He  thinks  the  risk 
too  great  to  take.  I  shall  hope,  however,  to  come  out 
again  in  the  spring.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  heard  anything  from  the  O'Shaugh- 
nessys?  Somebody  told  me  that  they  went  to  Eu- 
rope, but  I  have  not  heard  since. 

"I  am  devotedly  yours, 

"EMILY." 

With  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  a  single  brief  line, 
this  was  the  last  letter  that  Emily  ever  wrote  me. 
The  projected  visit  to  Chicago  was  never  made.  The 
plans  we  talked  over  in  the  summer  were  never  real- 
ized. She  returned  to  Washington  a  few  weeks  later 
critically  ill,  unable  to  see  even  her  close  friends. 
With  short  intervals  of  rallying  she  continued  to  fail 
until  May  17,  1916,  when  she  peacefully  passed  away, 
serene  and  uncomplaining  to  the  end. 


XVIII 

ASIDE  from  Emily's  large  executive  ability,  which 
±\-  showed  itself  in  the  arrangement  of  her  do- 
mestic and  social  life,  it  was  not  so  much  what  she 
did  herself  as  what  she  helped  others  to  do,  that 
counted  in  the  world  of  art  and  literature.  She  gave 
freely  to  everything  that  made  for  a  finer  culture. 
Her  charities  were  large  and  her  public  spirit  was 
always  alive,  but  her  personal  favors  were  likely  to 
go  to  people  of  special  gifts  who  were  deserving  of 
better  fortune  than  fate  had  bestowed.  To  those  who 
served  her  she  was  generous  and  kind.  Of  a  lack  of 
generosity  she  was  not  very  tolerant.  She  was 
thoughtful  too  of  friends  less  fortunate  than  herself. 
If  they  had  any  distinction  of  mind  or  character, 
together  with  a  certain  language  of  good  breeding 
which  is  more  easily  felt  than  defined,  money  or  the 
lack  of  it  did  not  count  with  her.  Yet  she  was  fully 
appreciative  of  all  the  beautiful  things  money  can 
buy,  as  well  as  of  the  privileges  it  brings.  She  loved 
her  friends  with  a  sort  of  exclusiveness  that  made 
her  a  strong  partisan,  and  she  had  a  great  deal  of  the 
esprit  du  corps  which  is  the  life  of  a  society  or  a 
coterie.  She  always  preserved  the  capacity  for  pas- 
sionate admiration  and  devotion  which  marked  her 
childhood.  If  it  sometimes  warped  her  judgment,  it 

[164] 


gave  her  the  impulse  to  carry  to  successful  conclusion 
many  things  that  would  otherwise  have  fallen  in  the 
beginning.  Her  energy  was  boundless.  She  never 
stopped  at  obstacles;  indeed,  they  served  to  strength- 
en her  determination  and  fire  her  courage,  which  was 
unfailing.  Years  tempered  her  enthusiasms  a  little, 
but  at  bottom  she  remained  the  same. 

In  all  her  relations  she  was  fortunate.  The  world 
lavished  upon  her  its  choicest  gifts  and  gave  her  the 
opportunity  to  make  the  most  of  whatever  talents 
nature  had  given  her.  I  once  heard  her  say,  before 
her  greatest  sorrow  fell  upon  her,  that  she  had  always 
found  the  fullest  compensation  in  life  as  it  went  on 
from  day  to  day.  It  was  a  part  of  her  sunny,  optimis- 
tic temper  to  enjoy  the  passing  hour  without  too  much 
fear  of  darker  hours  to  come.  She  was  not  intro- 
spective, and  spent  little  time  in  self  analysis  of  any 
sort.  Her  vision  was  outward,  not  inward.  This  may 
have  been  partly  because  her  abounding  energies 
never  left  her  without  an  immediate  aim.  When  one 
was  attained,  another  took  its  place.  To  inevitable  suf- 
fering she  presented  a  brave  face.  Nothing  daunted 
her  indomitable  courage.  In  every  life,  even  the 
most  favored,  there  are  moments  of  ennui  when  the 
dim  consciousness  of  the  insufficiency  of  all  things 
comes  uppermost,  and  the  outlook  is  gray  with 
shadows,  but  in  Emily's  these  moments  were  rare 
and  I  think  only  followed  some  definite  sorrow  or 
continued  ill  health. 


Her  qualities  were  those  of  a  strong,  energetic, 
dominant  nature  tempered  by  keen  sensibilities,  large 
sympathies,  a  generous  disposition,  and  a  full  meas- 
ure of  the  tact  that  is  one  of  the  first  of  social  gifts. 
Self-willed  and  masterful  she  was,  and  these  qualities 
were  accented,  perhaps,  as  the  years  went  on,  but 
they  are  traits  of  all  forceful  characters  and  did  not 
make  her  less  lovable.  If  she  was  not  always  quite 
just  to  an  adversary,  her  quick  sensibilities,  ready 
sympathy,  and  warm  temperament,  usually  saved 
her  from  hardness.  If  it  seemed  necessary  to  be  hard 
for  the  moment  to  carry  an  important  point,  a  sud- 
den impulse  in  the  end  would  melt  away  all  bitterness 
of  feeling.  She  never  cherished  an  enmity. 

There  was  a  strong  element  of  romance  in  her 
nature  and  her  vivid  imagination  was  apt  to  see 
things  as  she  would  have  them.  Perhaps  no  optimist 
sees  things  precisely  as  they  are;  a  certain  glamour 
transfigures  the  hardest  facts — which  is  the  charm  of 
being  an  optimist.  Here  lies  half  the  joy  of  living. 

In  spite  of  her  love  of  traditions  and  her  taste  for 
the  relics  of  an  artistic  past,  she  was  eminently  a 
woman  of  her  age.  Since  she  could  not  have  the  old 
distinctions,  and  did  not  care  for  shadows,  she  wished 
to  create  new  ones  on  present-day  lines.  She  liked 
to  decorate  and  beautify  the  modern.  She  had  the 
adaptation,  the  eye  for  availability  and  effect,  the 
familiarity  with  classic  forms,  to  do  this  without  los- 
ing the  mellow  atmosphere  of  age  which  is  fast  going 

out  of  the  world. 

[166! 


In  all  the  arts  of  refined  social  life  she  made  her- 
self distinctly  felt  wherever  she  lived.  Her  house  was 
always  a  centre  of  culture  with  a  perfectly  appointed 
background  of  material  elegance. 

"How  I  miss  Emily  MacVeagh!"  said  an  able  and 
accomplished  woman  to  me  not  long  ago.  "She  was 
the  most  inspiring  woman  I  have  ever  known." 

Taken  as  a  whole,  Emily  MacVeagh's  life  seems 
to  have  been  a  singularly  successful  one,  not  without 
clouds — as  what  lite  is? — but  with  a  minimum  of  dis- 
appointments and  a  large  measure  of  happiness.  It 
had  unity  of  aim  and  opportunity,  and  it  compassed 
its  most  cherished  ends. 

To  be  the  idol  of  one's  family;  to  have  a  congenial 
and  sympathetic  companion;  to  be  brave,  affection- 
ate, tender,  and  strong;  to  prize  beautiful  things  and 
be  able  to  command  them;  to  see  and  know  the  best 
the  world  can  offer;  to  look  with  rose-colored  glasses 
on  life  that  is  so  often  gray  and  sombre;  to  love  and 
be  loved  much;  to  realize  one's  dearest  dreams  and 
fairly  attain  the  things  one  has  most  wished  for;  to 
have  inspired  and  blessed  many  other  lives — what 
more  can  one  ask  of  a  Divinity  that  rarely  scatters 
earthly  treasures  with  a  lavish  hand? 


And  now,  dear  friend  of  a  lifetime,  farewell.  The 
book  is  closed,  but  its  vivid  pictures  still  live,  though 
I  see  them  today  through  a  mist  of  tears.  Gone  is 
the  sunny,  laughing  face  of  childhood,  that  looked 

[167] 


out  upon  the  world  so  eagerly;  gone  are  the  dreams  of 
youth,  with  the  intense  joy  of  living;  hushed  are  the 
untiring  activities  of  all  the  years.  The  light  has 
faded  from  the  hopeful  eyes.  The  loving  smile  has 
fled  from  lips  that  are  cold  and  silent.  But  in  some 
new  world  beyond  the  stars,  I  see  fresh  perspectives 
open,  and  the  soul  awakened  to  finer  spiritual  issues, 
pursuing  other  dreams  to  other  heights. 


168] 


PRESS  OF  THE   FAITHORN   COMPANY,  CHICAGO,  U.S.A. 


